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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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1.0 


1.1 


11.25 


U|21    121 

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HiotDgraphic 

Sciences 
COTporation 


23  'VF9T  (vMIN  STielT 

V.'t»ifn,N.Y.  14SM 

(716)  •73-4S03 


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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


• 


CIHM/iCIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches.    « 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiquos 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notaa/Notas  tachniquas  at  bibliographiquaa 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Featurea  of  thia 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


□    Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 

□    Covers  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommagie 

□    Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurAe  et/ou  pelliculAe 


D 


D 
D 


D 


Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


□    Coloured  maps/ 
Cartes  gdographiques  en  couleur 

□    Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

I — I    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


n 


Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serr^e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  inttrieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajoutAas 
lors  dune  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6te  filmies. 


Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  sjppiimentaires: 


L'lnstitut  a  microfilm*  le  meilleur  exemplaira 
qu'il  lui  a  AtA  possible  de  se  orocurer.  Les  details 
de  cat  exemplaira  qui  sont  p^ut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique.  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qu!  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  m6thode  normale  de  filmage 
son:  indiquAs  ^i-dessous. 


□   Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 


D 
D 
D 
D 


Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagias 

Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restauries  et/ou  pelliculies 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  dAcolories,  tacheties  ou  piquies 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  ditachies 


r~Vshowthrough/ 
LJ-1    Transparence 

I      I    Quality  of  print  varies/ 


Quality  indgale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  material/ 
Comprend  du  material  supplimentaire 


I — I    Only  edition  available/ 


D 


Seule  Edition  disponible 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6X6  filmies  A  nouveau  de  fapon  A 
obten'^  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


Tha 
toti 


Tha 
pes 
oft 

fillT 


Ori] 

tha 
sioi 
otii 
lira 
aioi 
ori 


Th« 
ahi 
TIN 
wh 

Ma 
dm 
•nt 
bai 
rigl 
raq 
ma 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film*  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu*  ci-doaaous 

10X                            14X                            18X                            22X 

26X 

aox 

y 

12X 

16X 

aox 

24X 

28X 

32X 

Th«  copy  film«d  hw  has  bMn  r«produc«d  thanks 
to  tho  gonorotity  of: 

UniMriity  of  British  Columbia  Library 


L'oxomplairo  filmA  fut  raproduit  grica  A  la 
gAniroalt*  da: 

Univariity  of  Britiifi  Columbia  Library 


Tha  imagat  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  baat  quality 
poMlbIa  eonsMaring  tha  condition  and  lagibility 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  liaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  spaeif ications. 


Laa  imagas  sulvanta*  ont  4t4  raproduitat  avac  la 
plus  grand  soin,  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nattat*  da  raxamplaira  film*,  at  an 
conformity  avac  las  conditions  du  contrat  da 
fllmaga. 


Original  capias  in  printad  papar  covars  ara  fiimad 
baginning  with  tha  front  covar  and  anding  on 
tha  last  paga  with  a  printad  or  illustratad  impras- 
sion,  or  tha  back  covar  whan  appropriata.  All 
othar  original  capias  ara  fiimad  baginning  on  tha 
first  paga  with  a  printad  or  illustratad  impras- 
sion,  and  anding  on  tha  last  paga  with  a  printad 
or  Illustratad  imprassion. 


Tha  last  racordad  frama  on  aach  microfiche 
shall  contain  tha  symbol  — ►  (moaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  tha  symbol  ▼  (moaning  "END"), 
whichavar  appllas. 

Maps,  platas.  charts,  ate,  may  ba  fiimad  at 
diffarant  raduction  ratios.  Thosa  too  larga  to  ba 
antiraiy  includad  in  ona  axposura  ara  fiimad 
baginning  in  tha  uppar  laft  hand  corner,  laft  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  framas  as 
raqulrad.  Tha  following  diagrams  lllustrata  tha 
mathod: 


Las  axampiairas  originaux  dont  la  couvartura  an 
papiar  aat  imprimAa  sont  fllmAs  an  commandant 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  tarminant  soit  par  U 
darnlAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'Imprasslon  ou  d'iiiustration,  soit  par  la  sacond 
plat,  salon  la  cas.  Tous  las  autras  axampiairas 
originaux  sont  fllmAs  an  commandant  par  la 
pramlira  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'Imprasslon  ou  d'iiiustration  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  darniira  paga  qui  comporta  una  taila 
amprainta. 

Un  das  symbolas  suivants  apparattra  sur  la 
darniira  imaga  da  chaqua  microfiche,  salon  la 
cas:  la  symbols  — ^  signifia  "A  8UIVRE".  la 
symbols  ▼  signifia  "FIN  ". 

Las  cartas,  planchas,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  Atre 
filmAs  A  dee  taux  da  rAduction  diff Arents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  Atre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichA,  il  est  filmA  A  partir 
da  I'angle  supArieur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite, 
et  de  haut  an  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nAcessaire.  Las  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mAthode. 


1 

2 

3 

32X 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

BY  THE   SAME   AUTHOR 
Each,  latno,  $1.25 

The  White  Mail  :  A  Railroad  Novel 

Frontier  Stories 

The  Express   Messenger,  and  Other 
Tales  of  the  Rail 


Tales  of  an   Engineer,   with   Rhymes 
OF  the  Rail 


SHORT  RAILS 


BY 


CY   WARMAN 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1900 


Copyri};ht,  1900 
By  Charles  Scribnur's  Sons 

f 


UNIVKRSITY    I'RESS    •     JOHN   WILSON 
AND     SON      .      CAMBRIDGE,    U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 


PACE 

The  Nkw  Ticket  Acknt 

Jack  Farlky's  Flyin<;  Switch ,« 

Out  on  the  Road 

The  KNdiNEER's  White  Hair 7. 

A  Running  Switch g 

A  Perpendicular  Railroad ,0, 

The  Wrix'k  at  Rouhideau ,,7 

The  Black  Fliers ,27 

The  Fighting  Manager ,^7 

Tiii,  Passing  of  McIvor ,(j| 

A  Sympathy  Strike ,-. 

A  Railway  Emergency jgg 

Railroading  in  France 207 

'Ar'  Ye  Woth  It?"      ....  ,-, 

A  Roumanian  Romance     ....  --- 

•    •    ■    •  227 

Opening  ok  the  Alpine  Tunnel 249 

On  the  B1.ACK-LIST 2  eg 

The  First  Train  over  the  Bridge  ....  287 

Fanny  and  the  Fireman 30, 


t^t  il^etD  Stcbrt  0gent 


THE  NEW  TICKET  AGENT 


(( 


'TTOW  unspeakably  dreary  ! " eyclaimed  the 
^  ^     new  man,  walking  aboi  .  the  little  station 
and  gazing,  bewildered,  out  over  the  quiet  coun- 
try town.     The  agent  whom  he  had  come  up  to 
relieve  was  talking  with  a   flat-figured,   sinewy 
young  farmer,  who  had  come  to  town  to  have 
his  plough  sharpened.    A  man  with  one  suspen- 
der  driving  a  cow  down  the  street,  shouted  to  the 
agent :  «  Hello,  Jim  !  "  and  the  agent  waved  his 
hand. 

''  Come  out  an'  see  us  'fore  ye  go  an'  we  'II 
cut  a  punkin." 

Jim  smiled  and  nodded.  The  man  laughed 
loud  and  pushed  his  cow  into  an  alley. 

"  What  a  crude,  vulgar  lot  of  yaps  inhabit  this 
earth,"  mused  the  new  man,  marking  the  folk  of 
the  village.    He  had  been  all  his  life  in  the  city 


THE  NEW  TICKET  AGENT 


V  I 


His  father  was  president  of  a  little  railroad  down 
East.  It  had  taken  him  just  fifty  years  of  hard 
work  to  reach  that  exalted  post,  and  that  was  his 
chief  reason  for  sending  this  beardless  boy  of 
his  into  the  throbbing  West  to  learn  the  business. 
The  ordinary  public  school,  the  high  school,  and 
a  course  at  a  business  college  was  all  he  got,  and 
at  twenty  he  was  "  finished,"  after  the  idea  of 
the  president,  who,  in  his  youth,  had  not  fared 
nearly  so  well.  A  single  letter  to  a  superintendent 
in  the  west  was  the  boy's  introduction.  He  had 
mastered  the  mystery  of  the  key  in  a  little  while. 
Railroad  work  of  all  sorts  seemed  to  come  as 
naturally  to  him  as  thirst  comes  to  an  Indian, 
but  he  had  a  let  to  learn  about  men  and  things. 
It  is  not  enough  for  a  man  to  be  able  to  **  do ' ' 
business ;  he  must  know  first  of  all  how  to  get 
business. 

Having  grown  weary  of  waiting,  the  new  man 
approached  the  agent  with  the  hope  that  that 
placid  individual  might  see  in  him  a  lot  of 
energy  going  to  waste,  and  so  cut  short  his  visit 
with  the  lank  young  farmer. 

"  Charley,"  said  the  agent,  stepping  back  as 
the  new  man  approached  and  waving  his  hand 


THE  NEW   TICKET  AGENT 


with  the  air  and  ease  of  a  farmer  showing  a  horse 
at  a  county  fair,  "this  is  Mr.  Cutter,  your  new 
agent.     Mr.  Cutter,  Mr.  Johnson." 

Mr.  Johnson,  stepping  from  his  wagon  to  the 
high  platform,  removed  his  glove,  about  to  shake 
hands. 

Mr.  Cutter  bowed,  smiled,  and  then  stared  at 
the  farmer's  big  feet,  not  even  noticing  the 
almost  outstretched  hand. 

It  is  a  pretty  well  established  fact  that  nothing 
is  more  disconcerting  to  a  man  than  to  have  an- 
other person  stare  at  his  feet.  Pretty  women 
often  resort  to  this  expedient  when  being  crushed 
under  the  gaze  of  handsome,  vulgar  men.  And 
so,  seeing  the  agent  staring  at  his  feet,  the  far- 
mer blushed  beneath  his  tan,  stepped  back  into 
his  wagon,  and  drove  away.  There  was  milk  on 
one  of  his  boots. 

Now  the  eye  of  the  agent,  trained  to  see  many 
things  at  one  and  the  same  time,  saw  all  this ; 
saw  the  look  of  disappointment  upon  the  hand- 
some face  of  his  youthful  successor  as  he  sur- 
veyed the  scene,  his  impatience  at  the  agent's 
delay,  his  disgust  with  the  agent's  familiarity 
with  the  coarse  people  of  the  place,  and  pitied 


THE  NEW   TICKET  AGENT 


him,  for,  with  his  own  departure,  he  saw  the 
business  of  the  village  going  to  the  opposition 
line  that  touched  at  the  other  side  of  the  town. 

"Can  you  show  me  about  a  little,  now?" 
asked  the  new  man. 

The  agent  made  no  reply,  but  turned  to  walk 
back  to  the  wooden  station. 

"  This  is  all  new  to  me,  you  know,"  the  new 
man  remarked.  "I'm  not  very  long  in  the 
business.  I  've  lived  in  the  city,  too,  all  my  life, 
and  I  dare  say  I  shal)  be  awkward  here.  I  'm 
not  long  in  the  west.'^ 

"  You  behave  as  though  you  had  n't  been  on 
earth  more  than  a  couple  o'  hours,"  said  the 
agent,  carelessly  shaking  out  his  keys. 

The  new  man  turned  sharply. 

At  that  moment  a  couple  of  unusually  pretty 
girls  came  romping  down  the  platform. 

The  new  man,  standing  at  the  end  of  the 
building,  could  not  be  seen  by  the  girls,  as  they 
came  skipping  along  holding  hands,  their  big 
straw  hats  waving  like  the  wide  wings  of  snow- 
white  gulls. 

"  Come  on  !  Come  on  ! "  they  were  saying  to 
the  agent.    "  We  're  going  to  the  post-ofifice." 


THE  NEW  TICKET  AGENT 


"  I  can't.  This  is  my  busy  day,"  said  the 
agent,  smiling.  The  girls  failed  to  see  anything 
unusual  in  his  smile. 

They  were  as  wild  and  gay  as  the  birds  —  as 
fresh  and  sweet  as  the  flowers  on  that  spring 
morning. 

"  Aw  —  come  on,  Jim,"  said  the  brunette,  im- 
pulsively, pulling  the  agent's  arm.  "  Come,  go 
a  piece  with  us,  anyway." 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  agent,  squeezing  her  hand, 
and  nodding  toward  the  station  where  the  new 
man  stood  waiting. 

"  O-o-o-o  !  "  exclaimed  the  blonde,  blushing 
as  her  big  blue  eyes  fell  upon  the  handsome 
young  man.  The  brunette  flashed  her  black  eyes 
upon  the  stranger,  who  now  turned  modestly 
away.  "  Kind  of  uppish,  is  n't  he  ?  "  she  said. 
"Good-by,  Jim,"  and  the  two  girls  romped 
away. 

The  new  man  watched  them  until  they  jumped 
from  the  far  end  of  the  platform  and  galloped 
off  up  the  narrow  board  walk  that  ran  from  the 
station  along  one  side  of  the  one  street  to  the 
post-office. 

''Now,  there,"  said  the  new  man    to  the 


8 


THE  NEIV  TICKET  AGENT 


agent,  "  there 's  where  I  should  like  to  be  in- 
troduced." 

"  Well,  I  Ml  introduce  you  to  the  office  if 
you  '11  promise  not  to  freeze  it,"  said  the  agent, 
coldly. 

The  new  man  flushed  the  least  bit,  but  followed 
into  the  station.  The  agent  started  to  explain  the 
use  of  the  electric  signals  to  be  displayed  when 
he  had  orders  for  a  train,  or  an  order  to  hold  a 
train  for  orders,  when  the  young  man  broke  in 
with  an  impatient,   "Yes,  yes,  I  know  that." 

"  Oh  !  you  do  ?  Well,  I  'm  glad  for  your  sake 
that  you  know  something.  There  's  such  a  lot 
to  learn,  and  life  is  so  short." 

The  young  man  glared  at  the  agent,  but  that 
self-contained  individual  did  not  take  the  trouble 
to  notice  it.  When  he  had  shown  and  explained 
the  ticket  rack,  he  broke  an  item  of  news  to  the 
new  man. 

"  Always,  just  thirty  minutes  before  the  mail 
train  is  due,  neither  earlier  nor  later,  I  go  to  the 
post-office  for  the  mail." 

"Whose  mail?" 

"  Well,  anybody's  mail  that  happens  to  be  in 
the  bag.     Then,  when  the  train  arrives  I  take  the 


I    i 


THE  NEW   TICKET  AGENT 


pouch  that  is  kicked  off  and  tote  it  over  to 
the  office." 

"  I  carry  the  mail  ?  Do  you  expect  me  to  be 
agent  and  porter  too  ?  " 

"  I  don't  expect  anything.  My  instructions 
were  to  show  you  what  1  did  and  how  I  did  it. 
There  is  really  nothing  to  do.  If  it  could  be 
condensed  a  man  could  do  the  day's  work  in 
two  hours." 

"  What  time  do  you  come  on  duty?" 

"Seven." 

"  And  what  time  does  the  night  man  relieve 
you?" 

"  Never.     This  is  no  night  office." 
"  And  what  time  do  you  close  up  ?  " 
"  Oh  —  when  I  think  there  is  nothing  more  to 
do.     I  usually  go  to  my  supper  when  the  last 
through  passenger  train  goes  do-.vn,  and  then 
come  back  and  look  after  my  lights.    Sometimes 
I  sit  in  the  office  and  read  or  write  until  nine  or 
ten  o'clock  and  then  go  away  for  the  night.  There 
are  no  '  hours  ;'  I  simply  do  what  I  have  to  do 
in  my  own  way  and  nobody  ever  bothers  me. 
Now  and  then  a  man  comes  from  the  auditor's 
office,  checks  me  up,  looks  me  over,  swings  into 


i  !. 


lO 


T/fE  NEW^   TICKET  AGENT 


the  next  train  that  passes,  and  that 's  all.  Here," 
said  the  agent,  strolling  into  the  freight  room, 
"  I  keep  my  lamps.  Here  are  my  supplies,  — 
oil  and  waste  to  clean  the  lamps  with.  Not 
many  roads  furnish  nice  white  waste  for  common 
station  agents." 

"  Who  cleans  the  lamps?  " 

"  I  do.  The  most  important  lamps  are  the 
switch  lights  throughout  the  yard.  I  usually 
stroll  down  among  the  switches  after  a  local 
crew  has  been  switching,  and  again  just  before 
going  home  at  night,  to  see  that  the  switches  are 
all  up  and  locked.  Man  left  the  switch  open 
before  I  came,  put  a  fast  freight  ia  on  the  grain 
track,  wrecked  the  engine  and  burned  the  eleva* 
tor  :  that  *s  why  I  'm  careful,  I  presume." 

"  Who  sweeps  out  ?  " 

« I  do." 

"  Office,  station,  and  all? " 

"  Everything.  I  always  try  to  do  that  of  a 
morning  before  anybody  comes  around." 

*'And  in  winter  do  you  fetch  the  coal  and 
empty  the  ashes?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  *m  the  whole  show.  This  is  the 
truck  I  handle  my  freight  on." 


;  f 


THE  NEW   TICKET  AGENT 


I-I 


Nov;  all  this  was  not  what  Lancing  Cutter,  Jr., 
had  figured  on.  He  had  dreamed  that  he  could 
wear  stylish  clothes,  spotless  linen,  and  look  like 
a  peach  all  the  time.  He  had  calculated  that 
his  principal  and  most  arduous  duty  would  be 
waiting  for  the  pay  car. 

Now  the  two  girls  came  skipping  by  from  the 
post-office.     The  dark  one  put  her  head  in  at 
the  open  window,   and  said  "Ahem!"     The 
agent  waved  them  away. 
"  I  won't,"  said  she. 

"Come  on,"  said  the  fair  one,  stealing  a 
glance  at  the  handsome  new  man  over  the 
shoulder  of  her  friend. 

The  agent  went  on  explaining  things  to  his 
successor,  and  when  the  girls  had  grown  weary 
of  teasing  him  they  strolled  out  of  the  little 
village  and  down  the  dusty  lane. 

n 

Nothing  can  be  more  glorious  than  the  dewy 
dawn  of  a  springtime  morning.  Freda  Johnson 
was  abroad  when  it  broke,  and  now  stood  under 
a  cherry-tree  watching  the  sun  swing  up  out  of 


i 


'   1 


if 


I' 


I 


12 


THE  NEW   TICKET  AGENT 


the  east.  An  early  robin,  fluttering  above  her, 
shook  a  shower  of  cherry  blossoms  down  over 
her  head.  Some  of  them  lodged  and  lay  like 
snowflakes  upon  her  golden  hair.  Of  all  the 
fair  flowers  in  nature's  spring  apparel  there  was 
not  one  fairer  than  Freda.  She  seemed  to  har- 
monize with  everything.  The  pink  ribbon  at 
her  throat,  the  pink  in  her  cheeks  and  the  pink 
in  the  petals  of  the  cherry  blossoms,  the  golden 
sunlight  on  her  golden  hair,  —  the  blue  of  her 
eyes  was  the  hue  of  the  skies.  She  was  as  fresh, 
as  fair  and  rosy  as  the  rosy  morn.  High  over 
her  head  a  lark  sang,  circling,  soaring,  mounting 
to  meet  the  rising  sun,  and  ever  calling  back  to 
the  low-born  birds  still  hiding  in  the  hedges  to 
rise  and  wing  to  the  ethereal  fields  and  view  the 
wonders  of  the  waking  world. 

Across  the  lane  now  came  the  tree-toad  trill 
with  which  girls  call  each  other.  Freda,  smiling, 
put  up  her  pretty  head,  and  from  her  pink  throat 
there  rippled  an  answering  call,  as  clear  and 
musical  as  the  lark's  song.  The  hedge  grew 
high  between  them,  but  these  wingless  birds 
heard  and  answered  each  other,  and  then 
romped  back  to  their  respective  homes. 


^}l 


.>a.-  ■     i;-  i^-i\ 


THE  NEW  TICKET  AGENT 


n 


At  nine  o'clock,  in  that  quiet  hour  that  in- 
tervenes between  breakfast  and  dinner  on  a 
well-regulated  farm,  they  always  went  to  the 
post-office.  Thij  had  been  their  habit  for  some 
time.  Now  it  became  a  necessity.  Every 
morning  they  stood  at  the  little  window,  and 
every  morning  the  new  man,  who  had  already 
learned  to  look  for  them  going  and  coming, 
saw  them  creeping  up  the  platform,  the  dark 
one  reading,  the  fair  one  listening  to  whatever 
the  reader  cared  to  read  aloud.  He  had  seen 
the  dark  one  kiss  the  agent  good-by  when  the 
agent  went  away,  and  now  he  knew  that  these 
daily  letters  came  from  th?  happy  lover  whose 
place  he  had  taken  at  the  station.  He  could 
not,  if  he  would,  take  the  old  agent's  place  in 
the  heart  of  the  vivacious  bnmette,  who  invari- 
ably lifted  her  dark  eyes  from  the  letter  to 
shoot  a  passing  glance  at  the  new  man,  but  he 
felt  that  with  the  love  of  the  fair  one,  even  this 
dusty,  desolate  country  village,  with  its  fatiguing 
monotony,  would  become  an  Eden.  But  that 
he  could  scarcely  hope  for.  He  had  not  even 
a  nodding  acquaintance  with  her.  He  had  been 
introduced    to  her    brother,   and    had   almost 


I 


If 


^ 


L\ 


!   ^ 


I 

b 


M 


r/^^-  JV£tV  TICKET  AGENT 


laughed  in  his  face.  But  how  was  he  to  know 
that  that  gaunt  individual  with  a  "  busted " 
under  lip  and  milk  on  his  boot  was  brother  to 
an  angel. 

The  farmer  and  the  new  man  had  met  once 
since,  —  only  once.  The  agent  had  smiled  and 
said  "  good-morning."  The  farmer,  wearing  a 
natty  spring  suit,  had  given  him  a  cold-storage 
stare  and  asked  for  a  round  trip  to  Chicago. 
The  fair  one  had  looked  at  the  new  man  on  the 
morning  of  his  arrival,  not  once,  but  twice  or 
thrice ;  he  had  caught  her  at  it  and  it  pleased 
his  vanity,  but  now  she  never  lifted  her  big  blue 
eyes  from  the  hot  pine  boards  of  the  depot 
platform  as  she  strolled  past.  Manifestly  she 
had  seen  her  brother. 

And  so  the  days  went  by.  To-day,  precisely 
like  yesterday,  and  to-morrow  the  same  as  to- 
day. Of  a  morning  he  had  ham  and  eggs,  at 
noon,  in  the  one-chair  barber  shop,  he  viewed  the 
pictures  in  the  "  Police  Gazette,"  and  at  evening 
heard   the    village  band  "practising"    in   the 


village  park. 


Ife 


THE  NEW   TICKET  AGENT 


15 


in 


As  early  as  seven  in  the  morning  the  farmer 
folk  began  to  arrive  in  carriages,  carry-alls,  in 
lumber  wagons,  afoot,  abike,  and  on  horseback. 
They  were  coming  into  the  village  to  take  the 
excursion  train  for  Devil's  Lake,  where  they  were 
going  to  read  the  Declaration  of  Independence, 
and  sing  the  praises  of  the  land  of  Yankee- 
Doodledom. 

According  to  the  notion  of  the  farmer  folk 
there  was  but  one  train ;  the  agent,  however,  knew 
better,  and  tried  to  tell  them,  but  they  would 
not  understand.  At  eight  o'clock  a  long  train, 
drawn  by  two  locomotives,  slowed  for  the  cross- 
ing and  then  steamed  up  to  the  station,  but  to 
the  amazement  of  the  multitude,  steamed  on 
without  stopping.  Before  the  people  recovered 
from  their  surprise  another  train  showed  up. 
As  it  approached,  the  waiting,  impatient  people 
lined  up  near  the  edge  of  the  platform.  The 
engineer,  fearing  that  those  in  the  rear  might 
push  the  others  off,  opened  his  cylinder  cocks 
and  sprayed  the  crimp  all  out  of  the  bangs  of 


i6 


THE  NEW  TICKET  AGENT 


' 


h 


11 


the  country  maidens  in  the  front  row.  When 
the  steam  had  blown  away  the  train  was  gone. 
Every  car  was  loaded,  and  there  were  one  or  two 
bare  heads  at  each  window.  Now  the  farmer 
folk  began  to  get  angry.  They  had  been  told 
by  the  local  paper,  by  people  from  Chicago,  by 
big  bills  on  barns  and  fences,  and  by  the  agent, 
that  the  road  would  run  a  grand  excursion  to 
the  Devil's  Lake,  on  the  Fourth.  They  had 
come  to  town  to  take  the  train,  and  the  train 
had  not  stopped  for  them.     They  were  "  hot." 

Presently  another  train  whistled,  slowed  for 
the  crossing,  pulled  up  and  stopped  at  the 
station.  The  agent,  coming  out  with  the  mail 
pouch,  saw  the  people  "  squatting  to  jump,"  and 
began  to  tell  them  that  this  was  not  an  excur- 
sion train.  A  man  with  red  hair  told  the  agent 
to  go  to  the  devil ;  they  were  going  to  the 
lake,  he  said.  Before  the  train  had  come  to  a 
stop  the  people  began  to  pile  on,  and  the  train- 
men began  to  explain  that  this  was  the  fast  mail, 
that  excursion  tickets  would  not  be  honored 
there ;  but  the  people  did  not  hear.  They  kept 
on  coming,  and  the  trainmen,  assisted  by  the 
agent,  began  to  push  and  pull  them  off.     The 


t 

-I 


THE   NEW   TICKET  AGENT 


17 


agent  caught  the  tail  of  a  gosling-green  duster 
and  hauled  its  wearer  down  the  steps.  The  man 
slipped,  his  chin  hit  one  of  the  car  steps,  and  as 
soon  as  he  could  get  to  his  feet  he  hit  the  agent, 
hard  by  the  left  eye.  To  be  sure,  the  agent 
was  only  doing  his  duty,  but  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  excitement,  and  the  farmer  folk  were 
confused. 

They  felt  by  this  time  that  their  town  was 
being  purposely  ignored  by  the  railro.id  com- 
pany, and  so  they  fought  enthusiastically  with 
the  company's  agents.  They  had  not  been  to 
the  Fourth  for  a  year.  They  nad  given  up 
good  money,  and  were  willing  to  fight  to  boot, 
if  it  were  necessary,  to  secure  a  ride  for  which 
they  had  already  paid  the  rate  demanded  by 
the  railroad. 

In  the  midst  of  the  mix-up  the  old  agent 
stepped  from  the  train.  He  had  been  planning 
that  he  would  have  a  talk  with  the  new  man. 
He  had  learned  that  the  business  was  going  to 
the  opposition  road.  He  had  even  hoped  to 
find  an  excuse  for  introducing  the  new  man 
to  Fred:'.  Johnson.  Being  happy  himself,  he 
wanted  to  help  the  stranger  on.     But  now,  to 


i8 


THE   NEIV   TICKET  AGENT 


I 
I 


li 


■'  \ 


.  i 

5.1 


I 


his  disappointment,  he  found  the  agent  scrap- 
ping with  the  dark  girl's  father.  Personally 
that  would  make  no  difference.  He  had  often 
noticed  that  his  prospective  father-in-law  needed 
it,  but  it  might  make  a  difference  with  the  girls. 
Fortunately  the  giris  were  not  there. 

The  old  agent  and  the  trainmen  succeeded  in 
prying  the  two  men  apart,  and  in  explaining  a 
good  deal  of  the  unpleasantness  away  ;  but  they 
could  not  explain  the  dark  shading  away  from 
the  new  man's  eye.  But  how  these  guileless 
farmer  folk  did  joy  to  see  the  face  of  the  ex- 
agent  !  He  was  a  messiah  to  them.  He  would 
not  allow  any  more  trains  to  go  by. 

Finally  the  people,  being  druvvn  from  the 
train  by  the  fight,  were  persuaded  to  stay  off; 
and,  after  losing  seven  minutes,  his  necktie,  and 
his  temper,  the  conductor  of  the  regular  signed 
to  the  engineer,  and  the  train  pulled  out. 

Now  the  new  man,  looking  as  if  he  had  just 
goLLen  out  from  under  a  harrow,  entered  his 
little  office.  He  wanted  to  wash  his  face ;  but 
the  people,  ne\/ly  arrived,  were  pounding  on 
the  ticket  window  v/ith  their  horny  hands,  with 
canes    and    umbrellas,    and   calling   lustily   for 


H 

■A 


f  ( 

•A-     I 


THE  NEW   TICKET  AGENT 


19 


USt 

his 
but 
on 
with 
for 


tickets  to  the  Devil's  Lake.  Not  one  of  the 
vast  concourse  showed  a  dollar,  or  made  the 
slightest  move  toward  their  trousers'  pockets. 
They  simply  opened  their  chimneys  and  asked 
for  information.  When  what  had  been  the 
agent  —  the  natty,  nobby  agent  —  appeared  at 
the  window,  the  crowd  fliiled  to  show  the  re- 
spect due  the  company's  representative.  Some 
of  them  would  not  believe  it.  Ten  minutes 
earlier  he  had  caused  die  coy  country  maidens 
to  clap  their  fat  little  hands  to  their  left  sides 
as  they  waited  for  change.  He  was  the  identi- 
cal youth  they  had  seen  in  th  ir  dreams,  but  he 
was  no  dream  when  the  farmer  got  through  with 
him.  He  was  more  in  the  way  of  a  nightmare. 
His  football  hair  was  mussed,  and  there  were 
crimson  spots  upon  his  shirt-front  made  by  his 
rich  young  blood.  A  commercial  tourist  had 
the  Jiudacity  to  laugh  through  the  window  at  the 
wounded  man.  A  half-dozen  excited  citizens 
asked,  as  with  one  voice,  "  What 's  the  fare  to 
Devil's  Lake?"  Another  half-dozen  called  for  a 
ticket  to  Devil's  Lake.  As  many  more  asked  in 
the  same  breath  when  the  excursion  would  go. 
**  Sakes  alive !  "  exclaimed  a  motherly    ma- 


'  I 


I 


( 


pi    ^ 

I' 


I    ' 


I 


20 


THE  NEl^^   TICKET  AGENT 


tron,  looking  the  agent  over,  "has they  been  a 
wreck  ?" 

All  the  while  the  commercial  traveller,  waving 
the  exact  change  over  the  heads  of  those  in 
front  of  him,  called  for  a  ticket  to  St.  Paul  by 
the  limited. 

The  red-haired  man  rushed  in,  shook  his  fist 
toward  the  window,  and  yelled  the  intelligence 
that  the  train  that  had  just  passed  and  which  had 
refused  passengers  "was  agoin'  to  the  Devil's 
Lake,"  and  produced  a  map  to  prove  that  the 
lake  was  on  the  main  line. 

"  St  Paul  by  the  limited,"  yelled  the  drummer 
lustily  and  with  monotonous  regularity. 

A  perspiring  German,  leanin'^  on  one  crutch, 
pounded  the  floor  with  the  other  and  wanted  to 
know  "phydi  devil  di  Devil's  Lake  train  don't 
come  yet  already  ?  " 

"  How  the  devil  do  I  know  ?  "  said  the  agent. 
That  was  the  first  time  he  had  spoken,  and  even 
then  not  more  than  a  dozen  people  heard  him. 

"  Limited,  St.  Paul  — limited  — to  St.  Paul.  " 

"  You  've  got  ten  minutes  yet,"  said  the  agent. 

Finally  the  wounded  staUon-master  persuaded 
those  nearest  the  window  to  find  their  money, 


M 


V      i  A 


THE  NEW   TICKET  AGENT 


21 


put  it  through  the  cat-hole,  and  get  their  tickets. 
The  old  agent  kindly  offered  to  assist  the  young 
man,  and  in  a  few  moments  had  elbowed  that 
sorry-looking,  though  well-meaning  individual 
from  the  window,  and  fed  tickets  to  the  multi- 
tude, as  a  farmer  might  feed  nubbins  through  a 
fence  crack  to  a  flock  of  sheep.  The  commer- 
cial tourist  had  insisted  upon  being  served  out  of 
his  turn,  urging  the  fact  that  he  was  the  only  first- 
class  inan  in  the  crowd. 

For  that  he  was  invited  out  by  the  red-haired 
man,  and  talked  at  by  the  lame  Dutchman  in  a 
way  that  made  him  regret  what  he  had  said.  At 
last  he  had  his  ticket  and  started  for  the  door,  but 
at  that  moment  another  section  of  the  excursion 
train  came  in  sight  and  the  traveller  changed  his 
mind,  rushed  back,  threw  his  limited  ticket  at  the 
agent  and  asked  for  an  excursion  ticket  instead. 
He  got  the  ticket,  but  before  the  agent  could 
count  out  the  change  —  the  difference  in  the  price 
of  the  two  tickets  —  the  traveller  had  darted 
from  the  station  and  boarded  the  train,  which, 
being  loaded  to  the  roof,  did  not  stop. 

Still  they  came,  —  from  Clinton  and  Caledonia, 
from  Janesville  and  Evansville,  Afton  and  Beloit ; 


'    H 


22 


THE  NEPy    TICKET  AGENT 


II 


I    i 


I  % 


if 


I 


ifiii 

if*  w 
l»  It 
I;  |f 

), 


: 


i! 


from  Jefferson  and  Waukesha,  and  even  as  far 
down  as  Racine  and  Kenosha,  on  the  Milwaukee 

bow. 

All  these  trains  flowed  in  on  the  main  line  at 
Madison,  where  whatever  space  was  left  was  soon 

taken. 

In  time  the  overflow  at  the  state  capital  was  ex- 
hausted, and  trains  began  to  stop  for  the  farmer 
folk. 

Presently  there  was  a  sharp  rap  on  the  outer 
window,  and  the  old  agent,  looking  over  his 
shoulder,  saw  the  dark  eyes  of  his  betrothed 
peering  in  at  him,  and  her  pretty  head  jerking 
back  toward  the  train. 

With  a  hasty  good-by  to  his  friend  in  distress, 
he  hurried  out,  joined  the  smiling,  saucy  bru- 
nette, and  stepped  aboard  the  excursion. 

When  the  train  had  pulled  out  they  learned 
from  Freda's  mother  that  Freda  had  gone  back 
to  get  a  forgotten  fan,  and  had  failed  to  make 
the  train,  but  she  would  surely  be  along  on  the 
next  section. 

"  But  this  is  the  last  train  of  the  excursion," 
exclaimed  the  ex-agent. 

Then  there  was  excitement.    Charley,  Freda's 


THE  NEIV   TICKET  AGENT 


23 


brother,  was  up  in  the  smoker,  trying  to  quiet  the 
farmer  in  the  gosling  green.  No  doubt  he  could 
suggest  some  way  to  help  the  poor  girl  who  was 
in  a  fair  way  to  miss  the  fun.  But  he  could  not 
be  reached,  and  the  train  rolled  on. 


IV 

The    green    flags    had    barely    disappeared 
around  the  long  curve  west  of  the  station  when 
the   blonde,    flushed   and   excited,  entered  the 
depot.     The  young  man  was  washing  his  face. 
She  rapped  upon  the  closed   window  with  her 
fan,  but  the  agent  was  busy.     She  rapped  again 
and  again.     The  agent  was  putting  on  a  clean 
collar.     Finally   he  threw  the  window  up  and 
stepped  back.     He  trembled  and  looked  very 
pale.     The  girl  was  going  to  ask  about  the  train, 
when  the  agent  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead  and 
fell  heavily  to  the  floor. 

The  girl  gave  a  little  scream,  but  nobody 
heard  her.  Nobody  was  near  enough.  Nearly 
all  the  people  in  the  place  had  gone  to  the  pic- 
nic. For  a  moment  she  felt  like  running  away, 
but  changed  her  mind.     She  could  see  that  the 


II  J       ( 

r    I 


24 


THE  NEW   TICKET  AGENT 


■I    th 


1 


young  man  was  ill.  He  had  been  hurt.  She 
had  seen  blood  stains  on  his  shirt  front.  He 
had  fainted,  and  she  would  help  liim  just  as  she 
would  have  any  other  sensible  girl  help  Charley 
if  he  were  ill  and  alone.  She  tried  the  door  that 
opened  into  the  little  ticket  office,  remembering 
the  spring  lock  that  she  had  seen  the  old  agent 
unlock  often. 

Fortanately  the  ex-agent,  in  leaving  the  office, 
had  slammed  the  door  as  he  hurried  out  and  the 
lock  had  failed  to  catch. 

A  moment  later  the  agent  opened  his  eyes  to 
see  the  beautiful  face  of  Freda  bending  over 
him,  and  Freda's  soft  hands  tenderly  putting  his 
hair  back  as  she  bathed  his  head  with  her  own 
handkerchief  which  she  had  been  dipping  into 
the  water  cooler. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  which  of  the  two 
showed  the  greater  embarrassment  as  the  agent 
regained  consciousness. 

In  his  anxiety  to  get  to  his  feet  and  help  her 
to  forget  that  he  had  fainted  he  stumbled  and 
fell  again,  but  not  in  a  faint. 

"  Are  you  ill  ?  "  she  asked,  and  the  gentleness 
of  her  voice  added  a  new  charm  to  her. 


II 


THE  NEW  TICKET  AGENT 


25 


"  I  had  trouble  with  some  of  the  passengers," 
he  said.  "  They  wanted  to  get  into  a  regular 
train,  and  of  course  it  was  my  duty  to  tell  them 
not  to  do  it.  In  my  anxiety  to  prevent  their 
making  a  mistake,  I  pulled  one  man  from  the 
car,  and  he  struck  me,  and  then  the  others 
joined  in  the  scuffle,  and  I  was  hurt  in  a  fall  — 
and  —  it 's  awfully  stuffy  in  here  —  '^ 

He  rose  and  staggered  from  the  room,  the 
watchful,  sympathetic  ;jirl  keeping  close  by  his 
side  as  he  passed  out  into  the  waiting-room. 

When  he  could  talk  better  he  asked  the  girl 
how  she  happened  to  get  left. 

She  told  him,  and  asked  when  the  train  would 
be  along.  When  she  learned  that  all  the  excur- 
sion trains  had  gone  she  seemed  greatly  disap- 
pointed. 

"  You  can  take  the  limited  and  pass  them," 
said  the  agent,  brightening  at  the  prospect  of 
helping  her  out  of  her  trouble. 

She  glanced  at  the  excursion  ticket  that  she 
had  taken  from  her  glove.  She  was  about  to  say 
that  would  not  go  on  the  limited,  but  he  in- 
terrupted. 

"  I  '11  fix  that/'  he  said,  taking  the  ticket  and 


1 

! 


I- 1 


26 


THE  NEW   TICKET  AGENT 


walking  unsteadily  back  into  the  ticket  office. 
The  limited  ticket  that  the  commercial  man  had 
paid  for  lay  upon  the  narrow  desk.  This  he 
gave  to  Freda,  keeping  the  excursion  ticket,  to 
make  his  record  clear.  A  moment  later  the 
limited  whistled  for  the  crossing,  the  agent 
showed  a  flag,  and  it  stopped  and  carried  Freda 
and  the  agent's  heart  away. 


:1  «f  , 
iJ  if   ■ 


Two  American  flags  fluttered  at  the  shoulders 
of  the  big  black  flyer  that  pulled  the  Northwest- 
ern Limited  out  that  glorious  Fourth  of  July 
morning ;  and  miniature  flags  were  in  the  caps 
of  the  enginemen.  Tiny  bits  of  *  glory '  were 
pinned  to  the  coat  lapels  of  the  conductor  and 
brakemen.  The  mail  agent  and  messenger,  the 
porter  and  the  barber,  all  showed  their  patriotism 
in  a  similar  way. 

As  Freda  entered  the  drawing-room,  the  pas- 
sengers, men  and  women,  dropped  their  books 
and  papers  and  looked  up.  The  girl  hesitated, 
glanced  back,  as  though  afraid  of  the  grandeur 
of  the  car  and  the  company.     Instinctively  the 


:!  r 


Ii.i 


THE  NEIV   TICKET  AGENT 


27 


people  in  the  car  felt  that  she  was  alone,  but  so 
fair  a  woman  need  have  no  fear  of  being  lonely 
long.  An  elderly  gentleman  rose  and  offered 
his  seat,  which  happened  to  be  next  the  door. 
The  porter,  smiling,  was  coming  back  through 
the  car.  The  conductor,  following  her  in,  had 
touched  her  arm  and  nodded  toward  the  seat 
gallantly  surrendered  by  the  elderly  gentleman. 
A  sweet-faced  lady,  whose  wavy  brown  hair, 
frosted  by  the  touch  of  time,  showed  that  she 
was  approaching  the  autumn  of  life,  smiled  up  at 
the  beautiful  girl,  and  put  a  gloved  hand  upon  a 
vacant  chair  beside  her.  Freda  returned  the 
smile,  bowed  slightly  to  the  elderly  gentleman, 
thanked  him  in  a  whisper,  and  took  the  seat 
near  the  sweet-fsced  lady. 

Freda  was  one  of  those  rare  creatures  who  are 
always  beautiful.  She  had  seemed  a  little  pale 
when  she  entered  the  car,  but  the  girlish  distress 
—  the  momentary  embarrassment — became  her. 
She  was  radiant  now.  For  a  moment  she  stole 
shy  glances  at  the  rich  furnishings  of  the  car,  at 
the-well-dressed  men  and  women,  and  out  at 
the  fields  and  farms  that  were  racing  back  toward 
Chicago  under  her  window.     As  she  looked 


.  I 


28 


THE  NEW   TICKET  AGENT 


the  earth  began  to  circle,  the  far  horizon  whirl- 
ing forward,  — the  near  fields  running  back.  It 
made  her  dizzy.  She  withdrew  her  glance,  and 
saw  to  her  confusion  that  half  the  people  were 
looking  at  her. 

Now  the  sweet-faced  lady  began  to  talk  with 
her.  The  lady's  home  was  at  Normal,  where 
Freda  had  attended  school,  so  they  were  good 
friends  —  almost  old  acquaintances — at  once. 
But  spite  of  the  interesting  lady  and  the  gran- 
deur that  surrounded  her,  Freda's  mind  would 
wander  back  to  the  little  station,  —  to  the  agent. 
She  could  not  forget  that  she  had  held  his  head 
on  her  knee,  brushed  back  his  brown,  luxuriant 
hair,  and  bathed  his  forehead  with  her  hands. 
She  had  known  all  along  that  he  was  handsome, 
but  she  did  not  know  until  now  that  he  was  so 
unlike  other  men.  She  would  gladly  forego  the 
day  and  its  pleasure  to  return  to  the  deserted 
village  and  bathe  his  fevered  forehead  and  hear 
his  voice  again. 

When  she  could  endure  her  secret  no  longer, 
Freda,  glancing  about,  nestled  yet  a  little  nearer 
and  told  the  lady,  in  an  artless,  impulsive  way, 
of  her  experience  at  the  station,  of  her  momen- 


If  'i' ' 


i;  ' 


Vi. 


if.  ; 


THE  NEW  TICKET  AGENT 


29 


tary  embarrassment,  and  finally  how  she  had 
bathed  the  young  man's  forehead  with  her  lace 
handkerchief  —  the  one  her  mother's  mother 
had  brought  from  far-off  Sweden  —  and  asked 
the  lady  if  she  had  done  wrong. 

Now  Freda  had  told,  parenthetically,  with 
little  smiles  and  blushes,  a  great  deal  more  than 
she  had  intended  to  tell,  more,  perhaps,  than 
she  knew  herself ;  but  the  sympathetic  lady  had 
been  through  it  all.  She  understood.  This  had 
been  the  first  meeting.  It  would  not  be  the 
last.  Spite  of  the  smile  upon  the  gentle  face 
there  were  tears  and  a  look  of  sadness  in  ihe 
soft  brown  eyes  as  she  pressed  the  girl's  hand 
that  rested  upon  the  arm  of  the  chair.  **  No, 
my  dear,"  she  said,  "you  did  not  do  wrong." 
As  she  looked  upon  the  sad,  yet  happy  girl,  so 
full  of  her  sweet  distress,  these  lines  of  Field's 
came  to  her : 


You  are  too  young  to  know  it  now, 
But  some  day  you  shall  know." 


30 


THE  NEW   TICKET  AGENT 


1 


VI 


I 


i     i 


That  was  a  long,  long  day  for  Freda  Johnson. 
About  four  of  the  eight  hours  she  put  in  telling 
her  mother,  her  brother,  and  her  intimate  friends 
of  the  agent's  misfortune  and  of  her  part  in  it. 
In  vain  did  the  country  swain  and  the  village 
shopkeeper  strive  to  entertain  her.  She  had 
never  seemed  so  silent  and  thoughtful.  It  had 
been  raining  the  day  before.  The  woods  were 
clean  washed,  the  grass  and  flowers  fresh  and 
sweet.  The  day  was  perfect,  but  Freda  Johnson 
was  not  singing  with  the  singing  birds.  When 
asked  to  waltz  she  said  it  was  too  warm.  A 
moment  later  she  declared,  almost  pettishly, 
that  it  was  too  cold  to  eat  ice-cream. 

When  at  last  the  shadows  began  to  lengthen, 
she  began  to  talk  of  home.  She  wanted  to 
take  the  first  train,  but  her  companions  laughed 
her  out  of  it.  Wher  the  second  section  pulled 
down  to  load,  she  stepped  aboard,  and  her 
friends  followed. 

By  this  time  the  people  round  about  the  vil- 
lage were  beginning  to  feel  sorry  for  the  new 


THE  NEW  TICKET  AGENT 


3' 


vil- 
new 


agent.  After  all  he  had  but  done  his  duty,  and 
had  saved  them  a  lot  of  trouble  —  the  old  agent, 
in  whom  they  put  their  trust,  had  said  so  —  and 
for  this  the  new  man  had  been  insulted,  beaten, 
and  walked  upon.  Even  the  dark  girl's  father 
began  to  speak  of  the  agent  without  swearing. 
If  the  agent  would  apologize  the  farmer  would 
forgive,  seeing  the  fault  was  his,  and  not  the 
agent's. 

When  the  train  put  down  the  excursionists  at 
the  vil!  ge,  the  agent  was  immediately  sur- 
rounded by  a  sympathetic  crowd.  Among  the 
first  to  express  his  sympathy  was  Charley  John- 
son, who  took  occasion  to  thank  the  young  man 
for  his  kindness  to  Freda.  He  wanted  to  pay  the 
difference  between  the  price  of  the  excursion 
ticket  that  she  had  left  and  the  limited  ticket, 
but  the  agent  said  there  was  nothing  to  pay. 

"You  bet  there  will  be  the  devil  to  pay," 
whispered  the  old  agent.  "  That  travelling  man 
wanted  to  board  the  limited  when  she  passed  us, 
and  to  ride  on  the  excursion  ticket,  and  when 
the  conductor  put  him  off  they  had  a  fight,  and 
when  the  train  crew  got  through  with  the  drum- 
mer he  limped  back  to  the  excursion  train,  vow- 


32 


THE  NEW   TICKET  AGENT 


\\% 


\i 


ing  that  he  would  sue  the  company.  So  I 
think  you  had  better  let  Mr.  Johnson  pay  for 
the  ticket,  and  report  the  whole  incident,  and 
I  '11  speak  to  the  superintendent  in  the  morning, 
so  we  '11  have  the  bulge  on  the  drummer,  beside 
being  proper  on  the  books." 

Freda's  mother  came  forward  now  and  shook 
hands  with  the  agent,  who  bared  his  head  as 
he  talked  with  her.  Freda,  standing  apart  from 
the  rest,  saw  this  and  it  pleased  her.  It  was 
so  different  from  the  way  of  the  good,  plain 
country  folk.  But  how  pale  he  looked  !  She 
sighed. 

The  dar!.  girl,  feeling  that  she  ought  to  say 
something,  came  forward  and  offered  a  free,  fill 
apology  from  her  father.  She  would  tell  her 
father  all  about  it  later.  "  Father 's  very  sorry," 
she  said,  "  and  hopes  you  will  forgive  his  rashness 
and  come  out  and  take  tea  with  us  and  —  " 

The  agent  was  beginning  to  smile.  "  But  I 
have  not  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  your 
father,"  he  began. 

**  Well,  you  've  met  him  all  right,"  the  old 
agent  chimed  in.  "  He  was  in  that  long  duster 
that  you  dragged  from  the  train." 


\  n 


1^  b 

ij  ill 


THE  NEIV  TICKET  AGENT 


31 


The  agent  should  plainly  his  embarrassment. 
That  your -father?  Oh,  I  'm  so  soriy.     This 
IS  most  unfor;^unate,  Miss " 

"Miss  Bennett,  Mr.   Cutter,"  said  the  ex- 
agent. 

"Oh, it  is  n't  your  fault  at  all,  and  you  are  not 

and-"""'^'''  P^P»  is,  so  come  along  with  us 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  much  I  thank  you,  - 
all  of  you,"  he  said,  and  his  eyes  wandered  to 
Freda. 

Young  Johnson  saw  this  and  beckoned  to  his 
sister,  who  came  forward  shyly. 

The  agent,  removing  his  hat  agam,  thanked 
her  m  the  presence  of  all  the  witnesses,  and  it 
made  her  happier  than  she  had  ever  been 
before. 

Now  the  country  people  got  into  their  wagons 
carnages,  and  :arryalls  and  drove  away. 

Freda  glanced  back  once  and  saw  him  stiil 
standmg  there,  alone  in  the  gathering  twilight. 
When  he  saw  that  she  was  looking  he  lifted 
his  hat. 


3 


li 


34 


THE  NEW  TICKET  AGENT 


VII 


/. 


i 


6:    •' 


|.^ 


.1 .. 


All  this  happened  years  ago,  when  the  road 
was  not  so  important  as  it  is  to-day,  —  before 
they  put  the  limited  on  the  night  shift  to  save 
the  time,  and  little  reading  lamps  in  the  berths 
to  save  the  eyes  of  the  passengers. 

As  might  have  been  expected,  the  tirelei'! 
energy  of  the  old  agent  has  been  rewardeu. 
He 's  a  G.  M.  now.  He  manages  his  Rocky 
Mountain  road  well,  but  no  better  than  the 
black-eyed  girl  manages  their  home. 

Not  long  ago  the  manager  sat  watching  the 
steel  race  out  from  under  his  private  car. 
Opposite  sat  a  middle-aged  man  with  a  full 
dark  beard,  well  kept  and  pointed  at  the 
chin. 

"  Say,"  began  the  general  manager,  glancing 
across  at  his  companion,  "  did  that  brother-in- 
law  of  yours  ever  forgive  you  for  laughing  at  his 
feet?" 

"  I  'm  afraid  not,"  said  the  general  passenger 
agent.  "  To  all  appearances  we  art  the  best  of 
friends.     His  wife  visits  my  wife  once  a  year, 


rV     ■ 


I 


THE  NEW  TICKET  AGENT 


35 


and  my  wife  returns  her  visits,  but  - 1  don^t 
know." 

"Why?" 

"  Well,  I  sent  him  a  pass  the  first  of  the  year 
and  he  sent  it  back.  Now,  that  is  not  natural* 
tor  a  congressman." 


fl 


if     !'!; 


S       V 


Iri 


aatk  SfwAtn'e  mnint  S>iaitti 


I 


i  ▼• 


i  I 

J 


I 


1' 


I 


111  I 
III' 


V 


h 


{ 


,      \ 


^f"*""       J 


JACK  FARLEY'S  FLYING  SWITCH 


T^ICK  HAYES  introduced  me  to  Farley 
^  "Jack,"  said  he,  "this  is  my  friend i 
be  good  to  him,  and  God  will  be  good  to 
you." 

Farley  turned  a  kindly,  sunny  face  upon  me, 
and   made  me  welcome  to  the  town.    Hayes 
had  a  mam  line  passenger  run.    Farley  was  run- 
nmg  freight  over  the  hill  where  a  road  had  just 
been  opened.    Farley   was  fairly  drunk.      I„ 
those  days  the  company  had  to  do  the  best  it 
could  to  get  freight  over  the  road.     Presently 
he  caller  came  into  the  hotel  and.  Jack  signed 
the  call-book,  where  he  was  put  down  for  second 
21,  which  was  to  leave  at  six-twenty.     It  was 
then  five-thirty.  /        i  was 

"  Will  he  be  sober  in  fifty  minutes  ?  "  I  asked 
when  Jack  had  steamed  into  the  dining-room' 

to  have  supper. 


i  . 

f 


■■^ 


!! 


r 


III 


U 


SI 

it 


40 


/A CAT  FARLEY'S  FLYING  SWITCH 


"  No,"  said  Dick  ;  "  he  won't  be  plum  sober 
in  fifty  years,  but  he  '11  go  out  and  come  in  on 
time." 

"  Can  he  run  a  train  with  a  load  like  that  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  can  take  the  train  orders  to  the 
engineer.  Scott's  ahead  of  him  an'  Scoville's 
behind  him,  —  they  '11  check,  and  register  him 
at  the  junction  points,  and  the  engineers  will 
get  over  the  division." 

After  supper  my  friend  and  I  stood  watching 
the  men  make  up  the  trains.  The  first  section 
had  pulled  out,  and  the  second  section  stood 
waiting  orders  at  the  station.  Presently  Farley 
came  from  the  telegraph  office  with  the  orders, 
handed  two  copies  to  the  head  brakeman  to 
take  over  to  the  two  engineers  in  front,  passed  a 
copy  to  the  driver  of  the  pusher,  to  which  the 
caboose  was  coupled,  and  said  cheerily,  "  All 
right ;  let  'er  go !  "  Turning,  he  saw  me,  and 
asked  impulsively  if  I  would  like  to  take  a  ride 
over  the  mountain.  I  thought  the  man  was 
joking,  but  ?:a  the  train  moved  off  Hayes  pushed 
me  towards  the  caboose,  saying,  *'  Sure,  get  on," 
and  before  I  could  realize  what  it  all  meant  I 
was  standing  on  the  rear  platform  of  the  way-car. 


«  H 


JACK  FARLEY'S  FLYhVG  SWITCH 


41 


)) 


It  I 
Icar. 


When  Farley  had  fooled  with  his  way-bills  for 
a  few  moments  (it  was  all  through  freight)  he 
called  me  into  the  cupola.  When  the  big  en- 
gine began  to  climb  the  hill  I  began  to  realize 
that  this  was  to  be  an  interesting  trip,  and  as  we 
climbed,  and  darkness  settled  over  the  world,  I 
could  see  the  electric  lights  of  the  little  moun- 
tain town  sinking  slowly  in  the  narrow  valley  as 
we  mounted  to  the  clouds. 

There  were  three  sections  of  21  that  night, 
with  three  engines  each.  Nine  engines,  all  wide 
open,  sending  nine  almost  solid  streams  of  fire 
from  their  barking  stacks.  As  we  were  turning 
the  toe  of  a  horse-shoe  curve  the  first  section 
was  passing  out  at  the  heel,  and  the  head-lights 
of  the  third  section  shining  on  our  caboose. 
It  was  a  glorious  summer  night,  star-lit  and  still, 
and  now  the  engineers  began  playing  tunes  with 
their  whistles,  a  thing  that  the  driver  of  a  passen- 
ger engine  would  not  think  of  doing.  The  effect 
of  all  this,  the  continuous  flashes  from  the  open- 
ing furnace-doors,  the  flood  of  fire  that,  falling  in 
the  deep  gorges,  showed  how  deep  and  dark 
they  were,  the  crowing,  hooting,  crying,  scream- 
ing,  and   wailing   sounds   of  locomotives  that 


If  11 


llli 


,•  > 

I 


( 


i  '■ 


I; 


i] 


42 


/AC/C  FARLEY'S  FLYING  SWITCH 


were  poking  their  pointed  pilots  into  the  very 
clouds,  was  bewildering  and  strangely  fascinating 
to  me.  As  we  rounded  the  countless  curves  the 
head-light  of  the  following  section  shone  full 
upon  the  flushed  face  of  Farley  as  he  lounged, 
bare-headed,  in  the  open  window,  as  happy 
and  apparently  guileless  as  a  town  boy  on  a 
load  of  hay. 

Presently  Farley  began  to  talk,  and  as  we 
climbed  the  hill  he  told  me  the  wildest,  strang- 
est stories  of  runaways,  wrecks,  and  ghost  trains 
that  I  had  ever  heard.  Subsequently  I  learned 
from  Hayes  that  these  were  only  romances  of 
the  rail ;  for  Jack  Farley,  in  addition  to  being  a 
great  drunkard,  was  one  of  the  most  resourceful, 
cheerful,  and  entertaining  liars  that  it  has  been 
my  good  fortune  to  fall  in  with. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill,  while  the  conductors 
were  getting  orders,  the  firemen  putting  out 
their  signal  lights,  and  the  engineers  oiling  round, 
I  came  from  the  little  caboose  to  have  a  look 
about.  Now  the  flare  of  the  torches  of  the  en- 
ginemen  and  air  inspectors,  the  green  and  white 
lights,  and  the  glare  of  the  head-lights,  the 
smoke  in  the  snow-shed,  the  burr  of  running  in- 


JACK  FARLEY'S  FLYING  SWITCH 


43 


jectors,  the  blowers  and  "  pops,"  and  the  clang- 
ing of  bells  as  the  pushers  were  switched  round 
to  the  front  so  bewildered  me  that  I  lost  my 
place.  I  asked  an  engineer  where  Farley's 
caboose  was,  and  he  pointed  into  the  darkness 
and  yelled  —  something.  Presently  I  saw  Jack 
standing  in  the  blaze  of  a  head-light  wearing  a 
little  chip  of  a  straw  hat,  no  coat,  and  perspiring 
like  a  prize-fighter,  while  I  stood  shivering  in  a 
fall  overcoat. 

A  few  moments  later  we  had  tipped  over  the 
crest  of  the  continent  and  were  falling  down  the 
hill.  We  were  nine  sections  now,  —  six  light 
engines  and  three  with  trains,  —  and  to  see  these 
black,  wild  horses  of  the  hills  plunge  with  a 
shriek  into  a  dark  shed,  only  to  burst  out  at  the 
other  end  as  a  projectile  leaps  from  the  mouth 
of  a  cannon,  was  an  event  in  the  life  of  a  novice. 

There  were  six  engines  running  light,  the 
driver  of  each  being  his  own  conductor  now, 
looking  out  for  himself;  then  came  the  three 
engines  with  trains,  each  man  holding  fifteen 
loads  down  the  mountain  with  a  little  levera  .  )"L 
as  big  and  not  much  longer  than  a  man's  finger. 
At  intervals  along  the  tops  of  the  three  trains 


I    I 


u 


\^ 


44 


/ACfC  FAX  LEV'S  FLYING  SIVITCH 


I 

,  i 

'A 

t 

' 

j  I 

i 

i 

( 

r, 

! 

)■ 

1 

1    .■ 

■1li 


■I' 

I 


I' 


sat  twelve  brakemen  bunched  like  owls,  ready 
to  grab  the  brake-wheels  if  the  air  should  give 
out,  and  in  each  of  the  cupolas  sat  the  captain 
of  the  crew  overlooking  all.  Only  in  my  caboose 
I  sat  alone. 

As  we  tipped  over  the  hill  Farley  threw  him- 
self upon  a  locker  and  fell  asleep.  Presently  he 
sat  up,  took  off  his  boots,  and  lay  down  again. 
The  engines,  going  down  the  hill,  made  very 
little  noise.  I  heard  a  creaking,  squealing  sound 
occasionally,  as  the  wheels  of  the  loaded  cars 
ground  on  the  curves,  the  loud  breathing  of  the 
air-pump  on  the  engine  over  ahead,  and  Farley 
snoring  on  the  locker  below.  Suddenly  Jack 
leaped  from  his  couch  and  yelled,  "Look  out 
there  !  look  out !  " 

I  looked  out,  both  sides,  forward  and  back, 
but  saw  nothing  wrong.  Then  I  heard  a  scuffle 
below,  looked  down,  and  in  the  dim  light  of  the 
bracket-lamp  saw  Farley  fighting  his  way  toward 
the  rear  door.  As  I  climbed  from  the  cupola 
he  opened  the  door,  closed  it  again,  turned,  and 
glared  about.  The  eyes  that  had  been  laughing 
constantly  now  flashed  fire,  while  the  sunny, 
childlike  face  grew  dark  and  terrible.     Before  I 


I' 


JACK  FAR  I.  FA"  S  FLYING  Sn'ITCn 


45 


had  succeeded  in  pulling  myself  together  he  lay 
down  and  became  quiet  again. 

Now,  thought  I,  if  he  will  only  stay  there  un- 
til we  get  to  the  bottom  of  this  apparently  bot- 
tomless hill  I  'm  all  right,  for  I  guessed  that  the 
man  had  jim-jams.  I  had  heard  of  the  dis- 
order, but  had  never  seen  a  man  with  the  fit  on. 
Inside  of  five  minutes  he  was  at  it  again.  He 
woke  with  a  scream  that  was  unearthly,  — wild 
and  awful,  —  and  as  suddenly  grew  quiet  again. 
Now  he  began  to  talk  in  a  natural  tone  of  voice. 
"  Look  at  the  little  tin  soldiers,"  said  he,  "  one 
on  each  bedpost.  That  duck  with  his  cady  cross 
the  track  must  be  Napoleon,"  he  went  on; 
"watch  me  swat 'im."  Then  he  reached  cau- 
tiously for  one  of  his  boots  and  fired  it  at  the 
soldier,  and  fell  asleep  again,  only  to  wake  a 
moment  later  and  leap  from  the  locker. 

"Who  did  that?"  he  shouted.  "Who  put 
that  snake  in  my  bed?  Dick  Hayes  told  you 
to  do  that,  the  white-livered  Missourian." 

It  began  to  dawn  upon  me  now  that  he  was 
talking  at  me,  and  in  order  to  justify  myself  and 
to  try  and  quiet  the  unfortunate  conductor  I 
climbed  down  the  steps  and  stood  before  him. 


4\ 


i 


x\ 


f  !  1 


46 


/^C/r  FARLEY'S  FLYING  i.^ITCH 


The  walls  of  the  way-car  were  papered  with 
pictures  of  prize-fighters  and  play-jictresses  in 
scanty  apparel,  and  just  over  the  little  desk 
hung  a  rusty  old  sabre.  "Jack,"  said  I.  In- 
stantly he  took  his  eyes  from  the  front  door, 
where  they  seemed  to  be  held  by  some  strange 
spell,  and  glared  at  me. 

"  Why,  damn  you  !  "  said  he  deliberately,  "  I 
thought  I  put  you  off  at  Shawana." 

That  was  what  he  had  been  doing,  in  his  mind, 
at  the  back  door. 

Now  he  came  toward  me,  lowering  his  head 
like  a  bull  going  to  war.  Ho  came  by  short, 
shuffling  steps,  and  as  he  advanced  1  retreated 
toward  the  front  door,  hoping  to  make  my 
escape  in  that  way  io  the  top  of  the  train. 
When  Farley  had  reached  the  middle  of  the  car 
he  made  a  lunge  for  the  old  sabre,  and  I,  divin- 
ing his  move,  turned  and  seized  the  handlr:  of 
the  door,  only  to  find  that  it  was  fastened  by  a 
spring  lock,  the  mechanism  of  which  I  could  not 
make  out  at  once. 

Glancing  over  my  shoulder,  I  saw  the  mad 
conductor  swing  the  sabre  and  advance.  I  was 
never  much  of  a  fighter,  and  somehow,  I  dreaded 


^  Hi  In  -I 


i:: 


JACK  FARLEY'S  FLYING  SWITCH 


47 


:ar 


lOt 


ad 


ed 


and  pitied  this  man  more  than  I  feared  him,  or 
had  feared  him  up  to  that  time.  I  regarded  him 
with  something  of  that  vague  horror  with  which 
an  able  Indian  looks  upon  another  who  has  been 
scalped.  But  now  I  had  my  choice  to  fight  or 
fly,  and  I  flew.  Ducking  under  his  uplifted  arm, 
I  passed  by  him  and  ran  up  the  steep  steps  to 
the  cupola,  the  wild  conductor  hacking  at  me  as 
I  climb  :d. 

As  I  passed  Farley  in  the  car  I  gave  a  yell 
that  echoed  in  the  hills,  and  that  yell  was  my  sal- 
vation. The  rear  brakeman  heard  it  and  came 
leaping  over  the  tops  of  the  cavorting  cars  just 
as  I  reached  the  roof  of  the  way-car,  with  the 
wild  conductor  at  my  heels.  Now  I  could  no 
more  make  time  over  the  top  of  that  train  than 
I  could  fly  to  the  summit  of  the  highest  moun- 
tain range,  and  I  knew  it.  I  could  not  walk, 
under  ordinary  circumstances,  on  the  top  of  a 
moving  train,  but  what  was  I  to  do  ?  Farley  was 
after  me.  I  leaped  to  the  top  of  the  last  load 
and  lit  all  right,  but  at  that  mon  :nt  we  hit  a 
curve,  and  to  save  myself  I  drop'.-ed  to  the  roof 
and  grabbed  the  foot-path  that  runs  along  the 
tops  of  freight-cars.     Just  here  the  conductor 


1^ 


I 


h 


u 


If: 


i 


it 


Mi 


M' 


48 


/AC/C  FA H LEV'S  FLYING  SWITCH 


and  the  rear  brakeman  met,  and  seeing  Farley 
flourishing  the  sabre  the  brakeman  engaged 
him,  much  to  my  relief.  All  over  the  top  of 
that  car  and  back  to  the  cupola  of  the  way-car 
they  fought  like  fiends,  while  I  lay  hugging  the 
toe-path  referred  to  above. 

Presently  I  could  see  Farley,  with  superhuman 
strength,  working  the  brakeman  toward  the  edge 
of  the  car  roof.  Clearly  it  was  my  duty  to  go  to 
the  assistance  of  the  brakeman,  but  as  I  got  to 
my  feet  we  found  another  curve,  and  I  was 
slammed  down  dangerously  near  the  margin  of 
my  car.  I  tried  again  and  again  to  get  to  my 
feet,  but  in  vain.  Now  the  two  men  were  strug- 
gling at  the  very  edge  of  the  way-car,  and  if  they 
went  down  they  would  fall,  the  Lord  knows  how 
far,  before  they  would  find  the  bottom  of  the 
gorge.  Putting  forth  his  utmost  strength,  the  big 
brakeman  succeeded  in  freeing  himself  from  the 
conductor.  Farley  lifted  the  sabre,  which  he 
still  held,  but  before  he  could  strike  the  brake- 
man's  big  fist  was  between  his  eyes,  and  the 
conductor  lay  at  full  length  on  the  top  of  the 
car.  .     .  .     , 

When  the  brakeman  had  lowered  him  to  the 


JACK  FARLFA'S  FLYING  SWITCH 


49 


floor  of  the  caboose  he  came  over  and  picked 
me  from  my  perch  and  helped  me  back. 

Farley  lay  quiet  now,  in  a  sort  of  drunken 
stupor. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  the  rear  brakeman,  who 
always  is  second  in  command,  wired  the  train- 
master's office  that  Farley  was  sick,  and  received 
orders  to  run  the  crew  back  to  the  end  of  the 
division  from  which  we  had  started  at  six-twenty 
the  previous  evening. 

On  the  way  back  the  new  conductor  told  me 
about  Farley.  "  He  's  an  awful  lusher,"  said  he. 
"  Nobody  knows  why,  an'  nobody  '11  ask  why, 
but  the  old  man  thinks  more  of  Farley  than  he 
thinks  of  any  man  on  the  mountains,  if  it  came 
to  puUin'  the  pin  on  Jack  oi  lat  brass-bound 
kid  o'  his  that 's  on  passenger,  ht  d  let  the  kid 
go  and  give  Farley  the  punch,  lie 's  just 
wrapped  up  in  Jack  Farley.  Train-master 's 
fired  him  twice  an'  the  old  man 's  put  him  back 
—  but  this  '11  cook  his  goose." 

The  "  old  man  "  was,  of  course,  the  Superin- 
tendent. He  was  what  managers  call  a  hustler, 
and  he  liked  Farley  because  Farley  could  hustle 
and  get  over  the  road  without  "  scrapping  "  with 
the  engineers.  4 


.    i 


TTT 


I:' 


i 


50 


JACK  FARLEY'S  FLYING  S IV ITCH 


X  -.1 


lin;| 


M' 


The  next  day  Farley  went  to  the  hospital  and 
remained  there  for  many  weeks.  When  he  came 
out  he  was  nervous  and  very  pale.  The  first 
time  he  went  down  in  tht  yards  he  entered  his 
old  way-car,  opened  a  little  private  cupboard 
that  the  carpenters  had  made  for  him,  and  took 
out  a  jug.  A  few  minutes  later  Jack  entered  the 
office  of  the  old  man.  Anybody  but  Jack  Far- 
ley would  have  asked  an  audience,  but  Farley 
filed  past  the  astonished  clerks  and  entered  the 
Superintendent's  private  office.  "  Mr.  High- 
way," said  Farley,  "here's  a  jug  of  bully  good 
whiskey.     I  want  to  make  you  a  present  of  it." 

The  Superintendent  was  amazed  at  the  man's 
audacity.  He  knew  that  Farley  drank  whiskey, 
but  he  had  kept  him  because  he  knew  more 
railroad  drunk  than  most  men  knew  sober,  and 
because  at  that  time  there  was  no  one  to  take 
his  place. 

"  Where  did  you  get  that?" 

"  Out  of  my  caboos''  — or,  rather,  the  caboose 
that  used  to  be  mine.'' 

"  You  know,  then,  that  you  're  discharged  ?  " 

"  No,  I  have  n't  heard  so,  but  I  should  think 
so.     It 's  about  time." 


.^( 


JACK  FARLEY\^  FLYING  SWITCH 


51 


ik 


"  Yes,"  assented  the  Superintendent. 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  said  Jack. 

"So 'ml." 

*'  I  *d  rather  begin  at  the  bottom  again  here," 
said  Farley,  looking  down  toward  the  round- 
house, where  a  half-dozen  black  locomotives 
stood  waiting  to  take  21  out,  "than  to  take  a 
train  on  another  road." 

"  Well,  if  you  begin  where  you  are,  you  *11 
begin  at  the  bottom,  for  you  are  about  as  near 
the  bottom  as  the  carpet  is  to  the  floor." 

"  May  I  begin,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  just  a  hundred  years  from  to-day." 

*'  But  you  understand  I  Ve  quit,  don't  you  } " 

«  Quit  what  ? " 

**  Rambooze." 

"  Huh  !  "  and  the  Superintendent  wrote  rap- 
idly, pretending  to  forget  Jack  and  his  jug,  and 
all  else  but  the  pay-roll  that  he  was  signing. 

"  Good-by,  Mr.  Highway,"  said  Farley,  mov- 
ing toward  the  door. 

"  Good-by,  Jack  —  here  !  you  Ve  forgetting 
something." 

"  No,"  said  Jack,  "  I  Ve  quit,"  and  he  passed 
out,  looking  very  pale  and  sad. 


:iJ» 


52 


JACK  FARLEY'S  FLYING  SWITCH 


M 


\ 


Long  before  the  end  of  the  one  hundred 
years  Farley  was  braking  on  the  hill  again. 

Three  years  from  the  day  he  gave  the  old  man 
the  juf  he  was  running  the  old  man's  car. 

For  th.  first  time  (and  the  only  time,  so  far 
as  I  know)  the  Superintendent  had  taken  his 
two  little  girls  out  with  him.  He  was  a  worker, 
and  used  his  private  car  for  the  company  and 
never  for  himself,  but,  being  a  kind,  affectionate 
father,  though  a  terror  to  trainmen  generally, 
he  had  concluded  to  give  the  children  a  little 
excursion  at  the  other  end  of  the  line. 

As  they  came  down  the  hill  that  day  they  met 
and  passed  a  freight-train  on  a  siding.  The 
rear  engine  had  been  cut  off  and  set  in  on  the 
opposite  side,  so  as  to  clear  the  main  line,  but 
the  men  on  the  head  end  did  not  know  this. 
In  going  in  on  the  siding  the  pusher  had  in- 
jured her  pilot,  so  now  she  could  not  push. 
She  would  have  to  change  places  with  the  head 
engine. 

The  conductor  signalled  the  head  engines ; 
they  each  blew  three  short  blasts,  the  pusher 
answered,  and  the  train  began  to  back  away. 
The  moment  the  head  engines  began  to  back 


^■ 

11 

1  i 

, 

f 

1 

1 

r    ■ 

i;: 

1 

4. 

J 

JACK  FARLEY'S  FLYING  SWITCH 


^7^ 


out  the  conductor  realized  that  he  had  made  a 
mistake  —  that  the  men  ahead  did  not  know 
that  the  pusher  was  detached.  Immediately  he 
scrambled  to  the  top  of  the  train  and  made 
another  mistake.  Instead  of  giving  them  a 
slow  signal  he  gave  them  a  stop  signal.  They 
shut  off,  but  the  rear  end  of  the  train  had  been 
pushed  back  beyond  the  level  track  that  lay 
in  front  of  the  little  way-station.  Five  loads 
snapped  off  and  went  roaring  dovvri  the  moun- 
tain behind  the  Superintendent's  train.  The 
one  brakeman  was  almost  immediately  thrown 
from  the  train  as  it  dodged  round  a  sharp 
curve,  and  now  the  cars  were  running  wild. 

The  engineer  on  the  special  saw  the  runaway 
cars  coming,  and  instantly  let  off  the  air  and 
began  to  fall  out  of  the  way.  Nine  hundred 
and  ninety-nine  men  out  of  every  thousand 
would  have  done  the  same  thing.  It  is  of  a 
piece  with  the  rule  that  says  when  your  train 
has  parted  keep  going  (keep  out  of  the  way) 
until  you  are  suie  that  the  detached  portion  of 
the  train  has  stopped.  The  other  man  would 
have  stopped  at  once,  unloaded  his  passengers, 
scrambled  out  of  the  right  of  way,  and  let  them 


I 


J 


^T 


54 


JACK  FARLEY'S  FLYING  SWITCH 


H' 


t   i 


hit.  But  that  is  not  according  to  the  book  of 
rules  nor  in  keeping  with  the  instinct  of  an 
engineer.  His  first  thought  is  of  his  people, 
his  train,  his  engine,  —  to  remain  in  the  cab  and 
die,  if  need  be,  and  he  usually  does  it. 

The  man  on  the  special,  being  full  of  the 
book  rules,  kept  going,  but  a  car  loaded  will 
outrun  a  locomotive  with  her  links  and  rods  and 
all  her  machinery  to  hold  her  bac.c.  Anyway, 
a  car  will  run  faster  than  any  sane  man  would 
dare  run  down  a  two-hundred-foot  grade,  and 
in  a  very  few  moments  the  special  crew  saw  that 
if  they  all  held  the  rail  the  loads  would  soon  be 
on  the  top  of  them.  The  old  man,  who  had 
never  known  fear  before,  put  an  arm  affection- 
ately about  the  slender  waist  of  each  of  his  help- 
less children.  The  speed  of  the  special  was 
something  frightful,  but  the  cars  were  gaining 
on  them. 

Farley,  standing  on  the  rear  platform,  turned 
and  looked  into  the  car.  He  saw  the  strong, 
rough  man,  who  had  always  appeared  as  dry  of 
tears  as  one  of  the  rocks  that  made  these  moun- 
tains, bending  over  his  weeping  children,  weeping 
like  a  woman. 


I  :i 


!i 


JACK  FARLEY'S  FLYING  SWITCH 


55 


For  two  or  three  seconds  (seconds  are  like 
hours  in  the  face  of  death)  he  had  been  con- 
templating a  move  that  would  result  in  his  im- 
mediate death  or  the  salvation  of  the  special. 
Now  the  sight  of  this  strong  man  in  tears  settled 
the  matter ;  he  would  make  the  effort. 

A  few  miles  below  the  point  where  the  freight- 
train  parted  there  was  a  short  siding  in  a  sag. 
When  the  special  car  passed  the  switch-target, 
Farley  stepped  off  just  as  he  would  drop  from 
a  train  at  twenty  miles  an  hour,  but  the  special 
was  making  forty  or  more. 

The  old  man  saw  him  jump.  "Ah,  well," 
thought  he,  "  the  poor  devil  is  only  trying  to 
save  his  life.     I  don't  blame  him." 

When  Farley  stopped  rolling  he  scrambled  to 
his  feet  near  the  east  end  of  the  siding.  In  his 
torn  and  bleeding  right  hand  he  held  the  switch- 
key,  that  he  had  taken  from  his  pocket  before  mak- 
ing the  frightful  jump.  Staggering  to  his  feet,  he 
found  the  lock,  thrust  the  key  in,  and  swung  back 
on  the  target ;  but  at  that  instant  the  wheels  struck 
the  ends  of  the  rails,  the  car  leaped  into  the  air 
and  glanced  off  into  the  side  of  the  shallow  cut, 
while  the  other  cars  came  piling  up  in  a  heap. 


!5« 


JACK  FARLEV^S  FLYING  SWITCH 


\ 
l<   * 


.1  ^ 


n 


f 


Presently,  when  the  driver,  looking  back,  saw 
nothing  following,  he  began  to  slow  down  and 
stopped. 

The  Superintendent  sent  the  fireman  back, 
and  flagged  slowly  to  the  scene  of  the  wreck. 
When  he  had  come  upon  the  heap  of  splintered 
cars  he  jumped  from  the  train  and  ran  back  to 
look  for  Farley,  who  had  jumped  off  near  the 
other  end  of  the  siding.  As  he  passed  the 
wreck  he  glanced  back  and  saw  that  the  switch, 
now  broken  down,  had  been  unlocked.  Look- 
ing closely,  he  found  the  big  brass  lock  with 
Farley's  switch-key  sticking  in  the  key-hole. 
Now  he  saw  what  had  been  done,  but  where 
was  Farley?  They  searched,  and  soon  found 
him  under  the  de'bris. 

When  the  broken  freight  had  been  removed 
the  old  man  bent  over  the  dead  conductor  and 
wept  as  no  man  on  the  mountain  had  believed 
him  capable  of  weeping ;  for  this  man  had  saved 
his  life,  and  had  died  doing  it. 

Not  long  ago  I  passed  over  the  road,  and  the 
conductor  pointed  out  the  place.  "There," 
said  he,  —  "  there  's  where  poor  Jack  Farley 
made  his  flying  switch." 


^nt  on  the  Uoao 


*  ( 


MU 


>nii 


m\ 


OUT  ON   THE   ROAD 


ti 


^T^OOTOOT ! " 

-*■  It  was  a  black  night. 
The  black  porter,  in  response  to  the  push  bell 
had  just  come  back  with  the  cigars,  and  at  the 
sound  of  the  two  short  blasts  of  the  whistle  he 
shot  a  scared  look  at  his  master.  Mine  host,  the 
general  manager,  looked  the  man  in  the  eye  for 
a  moment,  and  then,  as  the  speed  of  the  train 
did  not  slacken,  said  curtly,  waving  him  away: 
*  Bridge  watchman!" 

A  moment  later  our  train  sucked  through  a 
deep  cut,  roared  across  a  long  bridge,  and  swept 
up  the  slope  to  the  west. 

"  Notice  how  that  porter  shied  when  the  engi- 
neer  answered  the  watchman's  flag?"  asked  the 
manager. 

"We  had  an  experience,  years  ago,  with  train 
robbers,  and  this  porter  has  never  been  able  to 


ll 


t 


i?' 


1 1 


TT-y- 


60 


OUT  ON   THE  ROAD 


^.i 


I!   1.        I 


)'    ; 


J'  * 


live  it  down.  I  was  on  the  Hannibal  and  St.  Joe 
at  che  time,"  he  went  on,  dividing  his  glance  be- 
tween me,  his  cigar,  and  the  speed  recorder  over 
the  back  window. 

He  pressed  the  button  again  and  the  porter 
responded  instantly.  The  manager  moved  his 
thumb  slightly  and  the  porier  pulled  the  blinds. 

The  veracity  of  the  speed  recorder  had 
been  questioned,  and  we  had  been  holding  our 
watches  on  it  between  stations,  but  I  now  lost 
all  interest  in  the  speed  of  the  train  or  the 
reliability  of  the  indicator. 

When  one  of  these  interesting  soldiers  of  the 
rail  who  has  begun  the  battle  as  water  boy  and 
who  ends  as  president  of  the  road  he  has  helped 
to  grade  becomes  reminiscent  I  always  listen,  for 
he  has  lived  volumes  of  thrilling  stories. 

"  This  thing  happened  on  a  Sunday  evening," 
resumed  the  manager,  when  the  porter  had  tee- 
tered softly  down  the  side  aisle  that  led  to  the 
other  end  of  the  car.  "  About  eight  o'clock 
I  heard  a  sharp  rap,  rap  on  the  front  door,  i 
knew  that  the  servant  had  just  gone  out,  so  I 
stepped  to  answer  the  knock.  As  I  reached  for 
the  handle  the  rap,  rap  was  repeat'^^d  with  added 


OUT  ON   THE   ROAD 


6l 


earnestness.  I  was  annoyed,  for  I  had  gone  to 
some  expense  to  have  a  system  of  bells  put  in  the 
house,  rather  a  rare  thing  in  St.  Joe  at  that  time  ; 
but  now  to  my  amazement  the  knob  turned,  the 
door  opened  slightly,  and  a  man  dodged  in. 

"  *  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Blank,'  said  he  ;  '  I  want 
to  get  in  out  of  the  glare  of  that  street  lamp,  and 
I  was  not  sure  that  any  one  heard,  —  pull  that 
shade,  please,'  he  said  parenthetically. 

" '  Now, '  thought  I,  '  here 's  an  innocent  sort 
of  crank,'  so  I  pulled  the  shade  on  the  parlor 
window.     Still  my  visitor  appeared  uneasy. 

'■'■ '  Would  you  mind  stepping  into  a  room  a 
little  further  back  ?  *  he  asked,  earnestly. 

" '  Certainly  not,'  said  I.  '  Come  right  this 
way.' 

"  My  wife  was  in  the  sitting-room  with  the 
children,  and  not  wishing  to  disturb  them  I  took 
my  visitor  into  the  dining-room  where  the  gas  was 
still  burning  low. 

''As  I  turned  on  the  light  my  visitor  shrank 
back  into  the  hall. 

"  •  Pull  that  shade,'  he  said,  and  when  I  had 
drawn  the  blinds  he  stepped  into  the  well-lighted 
room. 


* 


' i.T'.-Ow  ■»ii[i>n-«i»  tt^mmmatf^mtttmrn 


k 

I. 
> 

1      i 

\ 

:  i 

!  1 

i 

.  \ 

1 

1    i 

62 


CC/r  OA''  r//£"   ROAD 


"  For  a  moment  he  waited,  as  one  waits  listen- 
ing for  expected  footsteps. 

"  Presendy  he  looked  me  full  in  the  face  and 
said,  frankly  :  *  I  'm  a  robber. ' 

'*'Yes?' 

"  '  Yes,  I  'm  aiobber.  We  are  going  out  to 
Roy's  Branch  to  hold  up  No.  3  to-night.  We 
went  out  last  Friday  night,  but  we  mistook  No. 
3  for  17.  Seventeen  was  late  that  night.  When 
we  had  discovered  our  mistake  it  was  too  late,  in 
fact  the  engine  had  already  passed  us  before  we 
realized  that  it  was  not  the  freight.' 

*'  In  those  days,"  explained  the  general  man- 
ager, *'  and  for  years  previous,  we  were  con- 
stantly being  steered  out  against  fake  robbers. 
We  would  learn  that  a  certain  train  was  to  be  lield 
up  at  a  certain  time  and  place.  We  would  ar- 
range to  have  detectives  on  the  train,  post  the 
engineer,  and  in  nearly  every  case  it  would  prove 
to  be  a  false  alarm.  Plenty  of  hold-ups  there 
had  been  on  other  roads,  but  on  the  Hannibal 
and  St.  Joe,  none. " 

"  And  how  do  you  account  for  that  ?  "  I  asked, 
my  interest  veering  for  the  moment. 

"  Oil, "  said  the  manager,  with  a  slight  wave  of 


OUT  ON  THE  ROAD 


63 


his  hand,  as  though  the  matter  were  scarcely  worth 
explaining,  "  Mrs.  Samuels  always  had  an  annual 
over  our  road ;  she  was  Jesse  James's  mother, 
you  know.  We  knew  that  the  St.  Joe  was  safe 
so  far  as  the  old  gang  — " 

**  Excuse  me, "  said  I,  breaking  in  again   (for 
I  meant  to  steal  the  story)  "  is  that  true  ?  " 

"What?" 

*'  About  the  pass.'* 

"  Sure." 

"  On  what  account?" 

*'  Oh,  complimen«-ary,  same  as  yours." 

*'  Go  ahead,  —  gang,"  said  I. 
—  *'  was  concerned,  and  so,  of  course,  I  doubted 
the  story  of  my  wild- eyed  visitor.  I  began  to 
question  him.  He  declared  that  he  was  the  son 
of  a  respectable  shopkeeper,  in  the  town,  whom 
I  knew,  and  asked  me  to  tell  his  parents  the  whole 
truth,  and  not  to  shield  him.  He  said  that  the 
thought  of  what  he  was  about  to  do,  and  to  be  — 
to  rob  and  so  become  a  murderer,  if  murder  be- 
came necessary,  had  so  preyed  upon  him  day  and 
night  that  he  was  almost  insane.  At  times  he 
had  planned  suicide.  Now,  as  the  appointed 
hour  for  the  gang  to  meet  drew  near  he  had  been 


'  '«MSi»*.#f«v*kwi*ii,M««  i,ki*.miVfr%9mvx^9^AXMii»J:*:^-X-tx : 


i? 


U  !  I 


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64 


O:/?'  OJV  THE  ROAD 


running  about  like  a  chicken  in  a  storm.  He 
had  gone  home  to  bid  his  parents  good-by,  but 
had  not  the  courage  to  face  them.  Hurrying 
down  the  street  he  saw  my  house,  and  acting 
upoxi  the  impulse  of  the  moment  had  come  to 
tell  me,  for  his  father  liked  me,  he  said. 

"  I  tried  to  show  him  that  if  what  he  told  me 
were  true  I  should  be  on  the  train  with  armed 
officers  to  kill  or  capture  the  robbers,  and  that 
in  all  probability  he  would  be  killed. 

"  *  Yes/  he  said,  he  knew  that ;  "  but  the 
gang  had  taken  an  oath  to  kill  any  man  who 
*  peached-'  '  d  if  he  failed  to  show  up  on  time 
at  the  rendezvous  they  would  go  after  him  and 
they  would  surely  kill  hini,  for  most  of  them  had 
murdered  men  before. 

"  *  Well,'  he  said,  presently,  '  I  must  be  off,' 
and  he  held  out  his  hand,  saying  good-by. 

"  I  put  him  out  with  a  faint  suspicion  that  he 
was  crazy,  but  it  was  my  duty  to  look  after  the 
company's  interests,  and  so  I  concluded  to  call 
the  Chief  of  Police  and  tell  him  the  story,  and 
at  least  get  his  advice.  As  I  put  the  receiver  to 
my  ear  I  noticed  that  some  one  was  talking  over 
a  tangled  wire  that  touched  mine  at  some  point. 


s 


OUT  ON  THE   ROAD 


6S 


"  *  What?  *  demanded  a  voice,  and  it  sounded 
as  if  talking  directly  to  me,  and  then  came  the 
reply  :  '  Will  1 7  be  ahead  of  No.  3  to-night  ? ' 

"  I  dropped  the  'phone,  stood  back  and  stared 
at  it  until  my  wife,  who  had  heard  the  wild  story 
of  the  bold  young  robber,  stepped  to  my  side, 
peered  into  my  face,  and  asked  the  cause  of  my 
agitation.  That  brought  me  'round.  I  lied, 
mercifully,  hurriedly  to  her,  called  Central  and 
asked  who  had  been  talking.  The  middle  yards, 
she  said.  I  asked  to  be  connected.  The  man 
at  the  'phone  said  he  didn't  know  who  had 
called  him.  Somebody  wanted  to  know  if  17 
would  be  ahead  of  No.  3  to-night.  I  asked  what 
answer  he  had  given,  for  I  had  dropped  the  re- 
ceiver vi'hen  the  voice  from  the  grave  —  this 
shade  of  Jesse  —  had  broken  upon  my  ear. 
Well,  he  said  he  had  answered  no,  ad  ling  the 
information  that  17,  the  fast  freight,  which,  ac- 
cording to  the  schedule,  should  leave  ahead  of 
No.  3,  was  late. 

"Now  this  talk  of  the  telephone  seemed 
strangely  coincident  with  the  tale  of  the  robber, 
so  I  called  the  Chief  of  Police,  asking  him  to 
meet  me  at  a  certain  corner  a  few  minutes  later. 


I 


•  ^t**.  0}  -ttM^.'V*/^  tof^^M   ^ya.<t*.Fi,tf  . 


■  m 


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n  f  K  i' 


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4  J 


66 


OUT  ON   THE  ROAD 


I  then  called  the  Sheriff,  and  told  him  to  go 
to  the  station,  but  to  keep  out  of  sight  and  to 
board  the  first  train  pulling  out  through  the 
yards.  My  next  move  was  to  tell  the  despatcher 
to  hold  all  outgoing  tr  .ins  until  I  arrived.  I 
then  instructed  the  yard  master  to  make  up  a 
dummy  No.  3,  and  sailed  out  to  meet  the  Chief 
of  Police. 

"  My  wife  was  frantic  at  my  leaving,  and  fin- 
ally I  was  forced  to  promise  to  return  to  the 
house  when  I  had  succeeded  in  starting  my 
little  army  out  to  fight  a  hidden  foe. 

"  Into  the  empty  express  car  we  put  an  empty 
piano  box  for  the  sharpshooters  to  hide  behind, 
lighted  the  lamps  dimly  in  the  day  coaches  save 
in  the  last  car.  This  car  we  left  dark  to  resem- 
ble a  sleeper,  and  in  it  the  Sheriff,  whom  I  now 
put  in  command,  hid  the  bulk  of  his  hastily  or- 
ganized posse.  A  deputy  sheriff  and  a  fearless 
locomotive  engineer,  off  duty,  were  stationed  in 
the  express  car  with  rifles. 

"  The  Sheriff  and  the  Chief  had  been  laugh- 
ing at  my  expense,  but  now  as  the  train  was 
about  to  pull  out,  and  I  began  to  give  final 
instructions  to   the  trainmen,  it  dawned  upon 


OUT  ON  THE   ROAD 


67 


them  that  I  was  not  to  be  numbered  with  the 
slain. 

"  I  was  simply  pointing  the  way  and  pushing 
them  out  to  do  or  die,  or  both.  Now  they  be- 
gan to  chaff  me.  I  was  general  superintendent, 
getting  good  pay.  It  was  my  duty  to  protect 
the  property  of  the  company  and  the  lives  of  its 
patrons.  I  was  willing  to  send  the  poor  em- 
ployees out  to  fight  robbers,  and  then  return  to 
the  quiet  of  my  hearth.  Well,  altogether,  the 
picture  was  not  one  that  I  liked,  though  drawn 
half  in  jest. 

"  All  the  while,  during  the  half-hour  in  which 
we  made  up  the  train  and  arranged  the  details, 
I  noticed  this  faithful  porter  following  me  like  a 
shadow.  I  wanted  him  to  go  to  the  house  and 
throw  a  little  dust  in  the  tear-wet  eyes  of  my 
distracted  wife,  but  he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
Well,  I  would  not  go  back,  so  I  gave  a  signal 
and  stepped  aboard. 

"  We  had  scarcely  crossed  the  last  switch 
when  in  sneaked  my  shadow,  the  porter,  with  an 
old-fashioned,  muzzle-loading  shot-gun.  The 
train  ran  slowly  along  for  a  little  while  and  the 
men  in  the  car  began  to  laugh  at  me  again,  and 


i 


:  \. 


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'*-#>^»^*<fn\<»*»i^,^f*l^»-i»..«)»*fv, ♦.»**«»  ,rf**^^*'"5*v-tJ»'J»3bfc;X7>«^.*'.*'^i 


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68 


OUT  ON  THE  ROAD 


11 


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at  each  other,  at  the  porter  with  the  long  shot- 
gun, and  the  general  job  that  some  wag  had  put 
up  on  us.  Presently  we  heard  the  engineer  an- 
swer a  flag,  '  Tootoot.' 

"  Instantly  the  car  grew  as  silent  as  the  grave. 
As  the  wheels  ground  sand  and  the  train  began 
to  slow  down  the  Sheriff  whispered  to  the  men 
to  keep  cool,  and  not  to  fire  until  they  were  sure 
of  what  they  were  shooting  at.  Now  the  train 
stopped.  The  silence  was  deathlike,  save  for 
the  heavy  breathing  of  my  shadow.  For  at  least 
a  minute  we  waited  breathlessly,  and  then  a 
voice  out  in  the  darkness  said,  *  Open  up.'  '  Open 
up,'  the  voice  repeated,  but  there  was  no  an- 
swer that  we  could  hear.  '  Open  up,'  and  they 
began  to  beat  upon  the  door  of  the  express  car 
with  the  butts  of  their  guns.  Still  the  men  in- 
side were  silent.  '  Open  up,  or  we'll  blow  this 
car  to  pieces  ;  we  Ve  got  dynamite  on  the  door 
sill.' 

"  By  this  time  we  were  all  afoot  in  the  dark- 
ened car,  waiting  developments.  Now  the  two 
men  in  the  express  car,  preferring  a  fight  to  dy- 
namite, slid  the  door  open  and  dodged  back 
behind   the   empty    piano   box,   expecting  the 


a-^,^--,----JS'  T^-%  •V^^-^i^^VlK^^'jrsiX^ 


iyW^  ^^S^^~^-Mtr^  'Sjr'v^t'^^i 


OUT  ON  THE  ROAD 


69 


lie 


robbers  to  jump  into  the  car.  At  that  moment 
the  stillness  was  disturbed  by  what  was  probably 
the  accidental  discharge  of  a  rifle  outside.  The 
Sheriff  and  a  few  of  his  followers  dropped  to  the 
ground  to  deploy  in  the  darkness.  A  deputy 
peeped  out  at  the  front  end  of  the  last  car,  still 
dark,  and  immediately  became  a  target  for  the 
robbers,  who  could  see  him  outlined  against  the 
sky,  while  they  remained  in  the  darkness  below. 
I  peeped  out  at  the  rear  end  just  in  time  to  see 
a  man  near  the  steps  aiming  at  the  deputy  on 
the  front  of  the  car.  A  shot  from  another  rob- 
ber caused  me  to  dodge  back.  Running  through 
the  dark  car  I  told  the  deputy  where  the  man 
was  hiding,  and  just  at  that  moment  a  bullet  cut 
an  upper  half  crop  from  the  officer's  ear.  I  tip- 
toed back,  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  man,  and 
banged  away  at  him  through  the  window.  Being 
anxious  to  know  whether  I  had  hit  him  I  put 
my  face  to  the  window  and  peered  into  the  night. 
Suddenly  I  heard  a  scuffle  among  the  coach 
seats,  felt  a  strong  man  seize  me  from  behind 
and  crush  me  to  the  floor.  I  could  not  turn  my 
gun  upon  my  assailant,  for  it  was  a  rifle.  *  Bang,' 
went  the  robber's  gun  again,  and  the  window 


I 


«rw>- «-'•«>'».>  »«  <***^«i»5«^*>»»»tM>*r*AJ»»JW.8il.t." 


nrr 


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70 


£?£rr  (9A^   THE   ROAD 


was  shattered.  As  I  went  down  I  heard  the 
voice  of  my  captor,  right  at  my  ear :  '  Po'  de 
Lawd  sakes,  Mistah  Blank,  keep  away  from  dat 
windeh,  for  dat  robber  blow  yo*  head  clean  off 
wif  dat  cannon  o'  his.' 

"That  was  the  voice  of  the  porter,  and  he 
had  pulled  me  from  the  window  in  time  to  save 
my  life. 

"By  this  time  the  firing  grew  pretty  general. 
In  the  confusion,  and  while  I  held  the  attention 
of  the  robber's  rear  guard,  the  deputy  with  the 
smarting  ear  crawled  under  the  car,  and  when 
the  robber  stood  up  to  shoot  at  me  the  G-puty 
located  him  and  the  two  men  fought  it  out  un- 
der the  window.  In  a  few  seconds  the  robber 
lay  dead.  Now  only  two  of  the  gang  kept  up 
the  fight.  Seeing  that  they  were  surrounded 
and  hemmed  in  against  the  train  they  called  out 
to  the  Sheriff  and  surrendered. 

"  The  batde  had  lasted  probably  not  more 
than  five  minutes,  but  it  had  been  a  lifetime  to 
my  family,  who  could  hear  every  shot  distinctly. 

"  I  gave  orders  to  pick  up  the  dead  and 
./ounded,  and  with  our  three  prisoners  hastily 
backed  into  town. 


•  ♦  ***■■*  "».  •*  »^  •».  •■•-^ftr  ».JT»»f  » •»  w-».>'>^-r-i  i«><r- *-»»<iV««ii«'»iiiaiB Jiwi 


OUT  ON   THE   ROAD 


71 


"The  wounded  man  died  shortly  after  our 
arr-'val  at  St.  Joe. 

"  The  informer,  of  course,  turned  State's  evi- 
dence, and  so  went  free,  but  that  was  all  that 
remained  of  the  original  gang  of  five,  four  of 
whom  were  desperate  men.  Of  these  four  we 
buried  two  and  sent  two  to  the  penitentiary  for 
a  long  term. 

"  All  this  happened  some  years  ago,"  added 
the  general  manager,  after  a  pause,  "  but  that 
darky  still  remembers,  and  he  always  shies  when 
the  whistle  says  *  tootoot.'  " 


1 1 


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■  I  ii<f<>>»«#'iii:»'»»»fy»)niw*i^#ew»<-*«»t*.*t»4aaf»^  >v<  »«i*-u . 


>4»iCJfi«--.<^  . 


tfte  engineer'0  OTjite  :\ir 


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"  «^'«»,,ftiuyi(.<rti-*«?»v 


rfcni.y^i'**,^^^^ 


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I 


THE  ENGINEER'S   WHITE  HAIR 


'HI 


\    I 


A  BIG,  black  cloud  ihat  seemed  to  pull  out 
at  the  bottom  until  it  was  the  shape  of 
a  balloon  spilled  its  flood  upon  the  west  slope 
of  Marshall  Pass.  The  flood  rushed  down  a 
narrow  gulch  and  tore  away  about  fifty  feet  of 
the  railroad  track.  The  New  England  excursion 
train  had  to  be  backed  down  to  Sargent's,  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  and  held  there  until  the  road 
could  be  repaired.  There  was  absolutely  no 
amusement  for  the  excursionists  save  what  they 
could  make  for  themselves,  and  yet  one  heard 
no  complaint.  Nobody  threatened  to  sue  the 
company  or  send  in  a  b'.ll  for  the  extra  feed  of 
mountain  trout  that  they  were  compelled  to  take 
because  of  the  washout.  We  all  knew  that  we 
should  have  no  trouble  with  this  party  on  that 
account. 

"  These  Yankee  tou'ists,"  said  the  old   en- 
gineer,   "  have   moo   patience   an'   less   pocket 


f»  '  1 


p* 


w 


76 


r//E  ENGINEER'S   WHITE  HAIR 


w 


^i 


money  than   any  class   of    people   undeh    th* 
sun." 

A  couple  of  gentlemen  came  over  to  the  little 
roundhouse,  walking  with  their  hands  behind 
them,  looking  at  the  locomotives  that  stood 
steaming  in  front  of  the  house  waiting  for  orders. 
Upon  the  pilot  of  one  of  the  engines  a  white- 
haired  man  in  overclothes  sat  smoking  a  cigar. 

"  Good  evening,"  said  one  of  the  tourists. 

"  Good  evening,"  responded  the  engineer. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  the  New  Englander,  putting 
a  clean  tan  boot  upon  the  nose  of  the  pilot, 
"that  you  have  been  in  a  close  place  some 
time." 

"Well,  I  can't  say  that  I  have,"  said  the  man 
in  overclothes. 

"  I  see  that  your  hair  is  white,  and  yet  you 
are  a  younger  man  than  I  am." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  engineer,  a  little  embarrassed, 
"  I  got  that  in  the  '60s,  long  before  I  com- 
menced railroadin'." 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  said  the  excursionist,  showing 
still  greater  interest ;  "  at  Gettysburg,  perhaps." 

"It  was  going  home  from  Ciettysburg,"  said 
the  engine  driver,  glancing  at  his  right   hand 


THE  ENGINEER'S    ll'HITE   HAIR 


77 


that  had  a  deep  dimple  in  the  thick  of  the 
thumb. 

"  I  went  home  also  after  Gettysburg,"  said  the 
Yankee,  and  the  two  men  looked  at  each  other 
for  a  moment  in  silence. 

The  fireman  brought  a  cushion  from  the  cab, 
threw  it  upon  the  pilot,  and  the  engineer  mo- 
tioned the  men  to  a  seat. 

"Well,  thah  was  a  good  many  went  home 
from  Gettysburg,"  said  the  engineer,  with  the 
hard  pedal  on  ^'home." 

The  Yankee  nodded  in  silence.  Of  course 
each  knew  by  the  other's  accent  that  they  had 
fought  there  face  to  face  and  not  side  by  side. 

"  One  of  your  fellows  did  me  a  mean  little 
trick  down  there,"  said  the  excursionist. 

"  Well,  if  it  comes  to  that,  a  Yankee  poked 
his  bayonet  through  my  hand,"  said  the  engineer. 

*'  And  seeing  that  you  were  unarmed,  made 
you  a  prisoner,  when  he  might  have  killed  you." 

''  Yes,  I  had  been  hit  on  the  head  with  a 
spent  piece  of  shell  or  somethuig  heavy  enough 
to  knock  me  out.  When  I  came  to  and  stag- 
gered to  my  feet  this  Yankee  made  a  run  at  me 
an'  i  had  to  give  up." 


,: 


't 


I      ' 


:     ,  : 


I 


f 


hi 


i;  y 


i  4 


78 


THE  ENGINEER'S    WHITE  HAIR 


(( 


And  how  did  you  treat  this  Yankee  who  had 
spared  your  Hfe  ?  " 

*'  Well,  sah,  I  watched  my  chance,  an'  hit  him 
a  crack  under  th'  eah,  grabbed  his  gun,  an'  when 
he  started  to  get  up  I  laid  the  barrel  across  his 
head  and  left  him  there,  when  I  might  have 
killed  him." 

"And  here,"  said  the  excursionist,  remov- 
ing his  travelling  cap,  "  is  the  scar  you  gave 
him." 

"  An'  heah  *s  the  ma'k  of  yo'  bayonet,"  said 
the  engineer,  wiggling  his  thumb. 

The  two  men  shook  hands.  The  tourist  re- 
turned to  his  sleeper,  but  came  back  again  pres- 
ently with  a  half-dozen  friends.  The  Yankee 
produced  a  well-filled  cigar  case,  planted  himself 
at  the  side  of  the  engineer,  and  asked  him  to 
tell  how  his  hair  happened  to  be  white. 

"  Well,  sah,"  said  the  engine  man ;  "  it 's  that 
silly  that  I  have  neveh  told  it." 

"  But  you  must  —  you  could  not  refuse  an  old 
comrade,"  said  the  Yankee,  laughing  heartily. 

"  After  the  sc  rap,"  >aid  the  Virginian,  whose 
accent  must  now  be  imai;ined,  "  1  went  home 
to  rest  until  my  hand  would   heal.     Our  place 


h 


THE  ENGINEER'S    WHITE  HAIR 


79 


was  a  long  way  from  the  railroad,  and  when  I 
left  the  train  I  hired  a  saddle  horse  and  started 
out  to  the  plantation.  It  was  a  dark,  rainy  night. 
The  result  of  the  battle  of  Gettysburg  had  sad- 
dened me,  but  now  the  thought  of  seeing  the 
folks  and  friends  at  home  gave  me  pleasure  that 
could  not  be  marred  even  by  the  sad  news  of 
the  death  of  one  of  our  neighbors. 

"  This  man  —  this  dead  man  —  and  I  had 
been  playmates  and  fast  friends  in  boyhood 
days ;  but  as  we  grew  older,  we  fell,  or  rather 
'  grew  '  in  love  with  the  same  girl.  I  can't  say 
that  I  blamed  him  for  that,  —  any  man  with  eyes 
would  do  it,  —  but  when  I  went  away  to  war  and 
saw  him  standing  by  her  side  upon  the  station 
platform,  it  didn't  seenj  quite  an  even  break. 
He  was  to  stay  there  and  listen  to  the  music  of 
her  voice  while  I  heard  the  roar  of  cannon.  He 
would  sit  by  her  side  in  the  suu^mtr  twilight, 
while  I  slept  out  in  the  rain  and  helped  make 
history,  and  the  thought  of  it  put  a  hardness  in 
my  heart  that  had  softened  only  at  the  news  of 
his  death.  It  was  pleasant,  however,  to  refit-ct 
that  I  had  faced  the  enemy,  —  had  walked  '  in 
the  shadow  of  the  shell '  and  lived  to  come  home 


? 

1 

.1 

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i  '  1 

i 

;  ) 


I  I 


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ui 


80 


T///;  ENGINEER'S   WHITE  HAIR 


to  her,  while  he  had  been  kicked  by  a  mule  and 
died. 

"  To-morrow  he  would  be  planted,  and  I  should 
be  there  to  see  how  she  took  it  and  console  her, 
as  he  had  done  when  I  answered  my  country's 
call. 

"  It  must  have  been  nearly  midnight  when  I 
entered  a  lonely  lane  that  led  past  the  principal 
burying-ground  in  the  neighborhood.  Looking 
over  the  high  stone  fence,  I  saw  a  new-made 
grave  and  doubted  not  that  it  was  for  my 
neighbor. 

"The  rain  had  ceased.  The  moon  shone 
dimly  behind  the  clouds.  Suddenly  my  horse 
stopped  with  his  head  high,  gazing  over  into  the 
graveyard.  I  spurred  him  and  he  started  for- 
ward, but  stopped  again,  raised  his  head  and 
snorted. 

"  I  listened,  but  heard  nothing ;  looked  and 
saw  nothing  but  the  white  slabs  gleaming,  ghost- 
like, in  the  night.  I  spurred  and  whipped  my 
horse,  but  with  another  wild  snort  he  whirled 
round  and  headed  the  other  way.  Putting  him 
about,  I  looked  over  the  low  wall  and  saw  some- 
thing white   rise   and   fall.     The   scared   horse 


f 

!  r 


-i«Wli|»g|i^l( 


THE  ENGINEER'S   iriflTE  HAIR 


8l 


trembled  under  me,  but  I  urged  him  on  to  where 
he  had  stopped  first.  Now  the  white  object 
rose  again.  My  God  !  it  was  from  the  open 
grave  —  his  grave,  too,  I  made  no  doubt.  For 
the  first  time  in  my  Hfe  my  blood  ran  cold.  I 
sat  like  one  paralyzed  in  the  saddle,  and  saw  the 
white  thing  rise  and  fall.  Again  I  urged  my 
frightened  horse,  but  as  often  as  I  brought  him 
up  to  the  scratch  he  whirled,  snorted,  and  dashed 
away  down  the  muddy  lane.  I  could  not  go 
round,  and  he  would  not  go  past  the  frightful 
object.  In  this  way  we  worked  forward  and 
back,  churning  the  mud,  but  getting  no  nearer 
home.  At  last,  discouraged  and  disgusted,  I 
determined  to  pull  down  the  high  fence  on  my 
right  and  pass  through  the  field. 

"  As  I  reined  my  horse  toward  the  fence  he 
refused  to  go  or  to  take  his  eyes  from  the  grave. 
With  a  wild,  unearthly  cry,  such  as  I  had  never 
heard  from  a  horse,  the  poor  animal  sank  trem- 
bling to  the  earth.  I  cut  him  with  my  riding 
whip,  brought  him  to  his  feet,  and  swung  into 
the  saddle  again.  Looking  over  the  wall,  I  saw 
this  thing  come  right  up  out  of  the  grave.  There 
could  be   no  mistake   now,  for  the  moon  was 

6 


'\ 


82 


THE  ENGINEER'S   WHITE  HAIR 


t 


■i'l 


V 


:  i 


shining  almost  full.  I  saw  it  put  out  its  hands 
upon  either  side  as  though  it  were  trying  to  lift 
itself  up.  The  white  arms  seemed  to  beckon  to 
me  in  the  moonlight,  and  then  it  sank  back  into 
the  grave  again. 

"  I  was  never  superstitious.  I  had  never  seen, 
up  to  this  time,  anything  on  earth  that  I  would 
not  approach.  But  this  was  too  much  for  me. 
It  was  not  of  this  earth,  — it  was  unearthly,  and 
I  was  sick  at  heart.  Now  I  began  to  wonder 
how  this  story  would  sound  when  I  should  go 
home  and  tell  it. 

"  I,  who  had  faced  death  upon  the  battle-field, 
day  and  night,  for  weeks  and  months,  must  say 
that  I  had  seen  a  ghost  in  a  graveyard.  The  very 
thought  of  it  made  me  angry,  and  I  swore  then 
and  there  that  I  would  solve  this  mystery  or  die. 

"  Life,  at  best,  was  not  a  grand,  sweet  song  to 
the  people  of  the  South  at  that  time,  and  that 
thought,  perhaps,  helped  me  to  be  a  little  mite 
reckless.  Taking  firm  hold  of  what  was  left  of 
my  once  ample  stock  of  courage,  I  dismounted 
and  made  my  horse  fast  to  the  high  fence. 
Crossing  the  road,  I  looked  over  the  wall,  but 
nothing  could  be  seen. 


I\ 


S 


THE  ENGINEER'S    irfllTE  HAIR 


83 


"  I  had  never  been  afraid  of  this  man  in  tlic 
flesh,  then  why  should  I  fear  his  ghost,  or  wliat- 
ever  or  whoever  was  doing  duty  at  his  open 
grave  ?  I  was  now  aware  that  I  was  shaking  with 
cold. 

"  I  took  a  drink.  A  friend  had  given  me 
a  botde  of  brandy  in  the  town,  but  I  had  for- 
gotten it  until  now.  Presently  I  felt  warmer  and 
waited  for  the  ghost.  I  began  to  hope  that  the 
thing  had  taken  water  at  my  display  of  courage. 
I  could  see  my  horse  over  against  the  fence, 
resting  quietly.  A  graveyard  rabbit  darted  past, 
rolling  the  leaves  and  causing  me  to  start. 

"  I  took  another  drink. 

"  Putting  my  hands  upon  the  rough  stone,  I 
leaped  lightly  to  the  other  side.  I  felt  another 
chill,  but  when  my  ghost  remained  out  of  sight 
I  took  courage  and  started  for  the  grave.  From 
mere  force  of  habit  I  took  out  my  pistol  and 
held  it  in  my  hand  as  I  went  forward. 

"  Unfortunately  for  me,  a  big  cloud  swept  be- 
tween me  and  the  moon,  and  I  paused,  a  hun- 
dred feet  from  the  grave,  to  let  it  pass.  Now  up 
came  the  ghost  again,  and  right  there  is  where  I 
got  this  hair.     Not  before  or  since  have  I  ever 


:1  I 


'li 


T 


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84 


THE   ENGLWEER'S    WHITE  HAIR 


VI 


i 


known  a  moment  like  that.  1  was  not  warm, 
and  yet  I  was  perspiring  freely. 

"I  took  another  drink,  but  this  time  I  could 
not  taste  it ;  yet  I  could  feel  the  three  drinks 
now  getting  together  and  giving  me  new  courage. 

"  Suddenly  all  sense  of  fear  left  me.  '  Hi, 
there  ! '  I  yelled.  *  Come  out  and  show  your- 
self!  '  and  instantly  up  came  the  ghost ;  but  in- 
stead of  frightening  me  it  made  me  laugh,  and  I 
laughed  loud,  there  in  the  lonely  place,  and 
heard  the  echo  come  back  from  the  hill  across 
the  run.  I  had  a  vague  feeling  that  I  was  in- 
sane, and  yet  I  knew  that  I  was  not,  though  I 
could  not  understand  why  I  was  not  afraid. 

"  I  wanted  to  get  hold  of  that  ghost  and  have 
it  out  with  the  thing,  and  dared  it  to  come  out 
and  make  a  fight.  I  fired  my  pistol  to  show 
that  I  was  brave.  There  was  a  sound  from  the 
lane  of  breaking  rails,  the  snap  of  a  hitching 
strap,  and  I  saw  my  poor  horse  galloping  away. 

"  I  was  in  for  it  now,  sure  enough,  and  deter- 
mined to  give  a  good  account  of  myself.  Right 
here  I  took  another  drink,  and  to  my  surprise 
the  bottle  was  empty.  I  also  took  a  shot  at  the 
grave,  for  it  occurred  to  me  now  for  the  first 


I 


■rHE  ENGINEERS  inuTE  „AIR  ,,, 


time  that  someone  might  l,c  having f„n  „ith  .ne 
As  the  s.noke  of  the  pistol  dcarcl  away  1  saw 
the  white  thing  lift  itself  to  the  edge  of  the  open 
grave.  It  had  wings,  r  couhl  hear  then,,  and 
see  them  beating  wildly  against  the  sides  of  the 
sepidchre. 

"  •  Come  out  of  that,'  I  crie.l.     '  You  've  got  a 

pair  of  wings,  why  don't  you  get  up  and  rty?'  ' 

1  here  was  no  reply  from  the  ghost,  and  it 

seen,ed  to  me  that  I  must  end  the  suspense  or 

go  mad.     Rushing  up  to  the  grave,  I  laid  hold 
of  the  thmg,   dragged  it   forth,  raised  it   high 
above  my  head,  an'  slammed  it  upon  the  earth 
It  gave  a  '  squawk.' " 

;' What  was  it?  "  gasped  the  New  Englander. 
It  was  an  ol'  white  gandah,  sah." 


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A  RUNNING  SWITCH 


FIFTEEN  miles  from  Buffalo  O'Grady  runs 
a  brickyard.  O'Grady  ships  his  wood  in 
and  his  brick  out  over  the  Fly  Line,  and  on  that 
account  and  because  his  brother  Tim  runs  a  sec- 
tion on  the  Central  and  his  son  Tim  used  to 
work  for  "  Chairley  Lee  ahn  th*  Lee-high,"  he 
claims  the  right  to  "mount  and  circulate,"  as 
the  French  put  it,  on  any  and  all  trains  that  slow 
down  at  O'Grady's  spur.  At  first  the  trainmen 
let  him  get  on  and  off,  but  there  come  times  when 
trains  are  late  and  men  are  cranky,  and  remember 
certain  rules  that  say :  "  Passengers  will  not  be 
carried  on  freight  trains,"  just  as  the  general 
passenger  agent  will  remember  the  commerce 
commission  when  he  knows  you  are  not  entitled 
to  a  pass,  and  walk  all  over  that  same  commis- 
sion when  he  likes  you  and  has  learned  to  regard 
you  as  a  mild  sort  of  nuisance  that  ought  to  be 


I 


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A   RUNNING  SWITCH 


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1 

1 

1 

fl 

Hi 

vl 

B^ 

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pi 

hj 


encouraged,  because  you  encourage  travel  or 
discourage  strikes,  or  you  write  nice  things,  or 
say  something  in  your  Sunday  sermon  about 
the  scenery  along  his  line,  or  —  just  because. 

O'Grady  is  fond  of  travel  and  dogs.  He 
bought  one  day  in  Buffalo  what  he  called  a  '^  ter- 
row-bred  "  bull  pup,  and  started  for  the  freight 
yards  with  the  pup  under  his  arm  and  a  vast 
amount  of  encouragement  under  his  vest.  Mc- 
Cormick,  the  engineer  on  local  freight,  shook ' 
his  oiler  at  O'Grady  and  said  to  O'Grady: 
"  O'Grady,  we  've  nothin'  for  O'Grady's  to-day, 
so  Mr.  O'Grady  '11  kindly  keep  off  the  cairs." 

O'Grady  laughed  behind  his  open  hand  to 
show  surprise  mingled  with  contempt  "An' 
is  that  how  yez  talk  to  th'  comp'ny's  patrons? 
Ye  little  upstart  uv  a  starter  and  stopper !  I  '11 
let  yez  know  that  I  've  somethin'  for  O'Grady's," 
and  with  that  O'Grady  climbed  into  the  caboose. 

Far  down  among  the  switch-stands  the  con- 
ductor held  up  a  handful  of  running  orders,  and 
signalled  the  engineer  out  of  town.  McCormick, 
leaning  from  the  cab,  caught  a  copy  of  the 
order,  yelling  to  the  conductor  as  he  did  so, 

"O'Grady's  in  the  dog-house." 


A   RUNNING  SWITCH 


91 


"  Damn  O'Grady,"  said  the  conductor.  The 
long  string  of  loads  rolled  past,  and  the  captain, 
squatting  like  a  squaw  at  her  cooking,  inspected 
the  brake  rigging  of  the  passing  cars.  The  train 
was  making  fifteen  miles  an  hour  when  the  way- 
car  came  by,  and  the  captain  swung  himself 
aboard  precisely,  and  with  as  much  apparent 
ease,  as  though  the  car  had  been  standing  still. 
The  rear  brakeman  was  leaning  from  the  cupola, 
throwing  signals  to  a  switch-tower  and  kisses  to 
the  head-waitress  of  the  Fly  Line  Hotel,  five 
blocks  away. 

**  Why  don't  you  throw  this  terrier  off?" 
yelled  the  conductor. 

"  Which  one  ?  "  asked  the  brakeman,  laughing 
down  the  ladder. 

"  That 's  no  terrier,"  said  O'Grady,  removing 
his  brief  cigar.     "  He  *s  a  terrow-bred." 

"  Where  the  devil  you  going,  anyway  ?  " 

"To  the  divil,"  said  the  dog-man. 

"  Put  him  off  at  O'Grady's,  then,"  said  the 
conductor,  throwing  himself  into  the  only  chair, 
and  the  only  piece  of  furniture  that  is  always  re- 
spected by  deadheads  on  a  way-car. 

The  tail-Hags  fluttered  under  the  last  switch- 


\ 


I 


92 


A   RUNNING  SWITCH 


tower  ten  minutes  late.  McCormick  was  cutting 
the  big  lever  back  a  notch  at  each  half-mile,  and 
giving  her  another  half-inch  of  throttle.  The 
black  smoke  burned  blue,  and  finally  faded  from 
the  trembling  stack,  a  white  plume  of  steam 
stood  above  the  dome,  the  windows  began  to 
tremble  in  the  way-car,  the  conductor  worked 
at  his  narrow  desk,  the  brakeman  lounged  in  the 
window,  while  O'Grady  and  the  bull  pup  snored, 
side  by  side,  on  the  locker  below. 

It  had  rained  hard  on  the  morning  of  this  mild 
September  day,  and  now  the  sun  slipped  through 
the  clouds  and  glanced  along  the  level  pools  of 
muddy  water  that  stood  in  the  furrows  in  the 
fields  and  filled  the  ruts  that  ran  beside  the 
wagon-ways.  Looking  back  along  the  shaking 
sides  of  the  bobbing  cars,  McCoruiick  saw 
smoke  rising  from  a  burning  box.  Glancing  at 
his  watch  he  found  that  he  would  have  to  "  fan 
'em"  to  get  to  Willow  Creek  for  the  limited, 
and  so  the  box  would  have  to  burn.  O'Grady, 
growing  restless,  turned  over  on  the  pup, 
the  pup  yelled,  O'Grady  shied  and  rolled  to 
the  floor.  The  conductor  threw  himself  upon 
the  forward  locker  to  escape  the  sight  of  the 


A   RUNNING  SWITCH 


93 


man  and  the  dog,  for  he  intended  to  tote  them 
by,  and  on  to  Willow  Creek. 

Presently  the  whistle  sounded,  and  O'Grady, 
glancing  out,  saw  that  he  was  neaiing  his  des- 
tination. Holding  the  pup  under  his  arm  he 
walked,  unobserved  by  either  of  the  trainmen,  to 
the  rear  door  and  stood  ready  to  step  off.  Mrs. 
O'Grady  had  heard  the  local  whistle,  and  now 
stood,  holding  the  hand  of  little  Terrance 
O'Grady,  at  the  edge  of  the  brickyard  as  the  en- 
gine came  down  at  a  thirty-five-mile  gait.  The 
freckles  lay  on  Terrance's  face  like  autumn  leaves 
on  a  muddy  lot  as  he  smiled  up  at  the  train  in 
''hildish  anticipation  of  the  promised  pup. 

O'Grady's  brain  was  not  in  a  condition  to 
judge  accurately  as  to  the  speed  of  the  train, 
and  so  he  made  ready  to  get  down  as  if  it  were 
perfectly  safe.  O'Grady  had  been  drinking. 
Nothing  known  to  man  will  increase  one's 
confidence  in  one's  ability  to  do  things  as  red 
liquor  will,  and  O'Grady  always  drank  it  red. 

"  Now,  may  the  divil  fly  away  wud  yez,  Mc- 
Cormick,"  said  O'Grady,  standing  on  the  steps  of 
the  way-car.  A  moment  later  he  caught  sight 
of  Mrs.  O'Grady  and  Terrance  standing  in  the 


,.-■«     '<*.:^j, --hJiii^  #c»U5-'j*i'"*r«vr*.'»^- 


II »  —til  iiOi 


94 


A   RUNNING  SWITCH 


II.J^I 


yellow  lot,  and  swinging  one  foot  down  he  let 
go.  The  speed  of  the  train  carried  his  "  kick- 
kicks,"  as  'I'errance  would  say,  high  above  the 
level  of  the  step,  and  twisting  slightly,  O'Grady 
lit  on  his  left  shoulder  in  the  middle  of  a  minia- 
ture lake  of  liquid  brick-dust,  with  the  pup  under 
him.  The  yellow  water  covered  Mrs.  O'Grady 
and  Terrance,  blinding  them  for  a  moment,  and 
when  they  could  see,  they  saw  O'Grady  flounder 
forth,  holding  by  its  hind  legs  the  limp  and  life- 
less pup. 

"  Give  the  poor  cratur  some  whiskey  —  blow 
in  its  face,  Patrick,"  said  Mrs.  O'Grady,  "an' 
see  if  ye  kin  fetch  ut  back  to  life." 

"  As  well  might  yez  blow  in  a  tin-cint  balloon 
that  th'  illiphant's  walked  ahn,"  said  O'Grady, 
looking  at  the  dead  dog;  for  he  was  greatly 
sobered  by  the  fall.  When  the  sun  was  going 
down  golden  in  the  west  they  made  a  little  grave 
in  the  garden,  and  there  were  tears  that  evening 
on  the  pup's  bier  and  in  Terrance's  tea.  For 
many  months  McCormick  went  by  without 
whistling  for  O'Grady's  spur  or  waving  a  passing 
salute  to  O'Grady,  and  O'Grady,  putting  the 
pup's  blood  upon  the  engineer's  hands,  turned 


i  ■ 


1^^ 


iiin*^^**"^'' 


r*^r^^^.''^?^-''^-^^;»%i*i.'-Jv^:.- 


A    RUNNING  SWITCH 


95 


his  back  as  the  local  roared  past.  If  they 
stopped  to  set  in  an  empty  or  pick  up  a  load, 
O'Grady  sent  the  foreman  down  with  the  bill, 
and  stayed  hid  in  the  brickyard. 

The  local  crew  had  missed  O'Grady,  and 
knew  that  he  had  left  the  train.  They  saw  him 
limping  about  the  brickyard  next  day,  and  knew 
that  he  had  survi/ed,  but  that  was  all  they  knew 
about  it,  and  if  O'Grady  had  known  how  little 
they  knew  he  could  have  forgiven  a  great  deal, 
but  his  pride  was  "hurteu,"  to  say  nothing  of 
the  pup  that  had  been  "  kilt.'*  The  local,  he  ob- 
served, could  do  without  O'Grady,  but  O'Grady 
could  not  do  without  the  local. 

From  O'Grady's  spur  to  Buffalo  was  fifteen 
miles.  From  Buffalo  back  again  was  fifteen 
miles,  so  O'Grady  decided  to  accept  the  apol- 
ogy of  the  engineer,  forgive  the  past,  and  ride. 
But  McCormick  would  not  apologize.  He  told 
O'Grady  to  "  chase  himself,"  and  there  was  an- 
other long,  dry  spell  for  O'Grady.  One  day  a 
light  engine  backed  in  on  the  spur  to  pass  a 
train  and  the  brick  merchant  worked  the  driver 
for  a  ride  to  the  city  limits.  He  told  the  man 
in  confidence  the  story  of  the  pup.     The  man 


( 


1 


ii 


»*li*'*-«*^|i>vJsw*  ***•-• 


A   RUNNING  SWITCH 


J 


[3 

n  I 


\ 


ifl 


5 


roared  with  laughter  and  was  glad  he  had 
permitted  O'Giady  to  ride.  So  the  story  of 
O'Grady's  getting  off  reached  the  ears  of  the 
local  crew  on  the  following  day,  and  while  Mc- 
Cormick  was  still  laughing  O'Grady  came  down 
the  track.  He  had  his  tank  full  and  a  flutter 
in  the  stack  as  he  slowed  down  and  faced  the 
engineer. 

"  Phat  way  are  yez  feelin*  th*  day,  McCor- 
mick?"  he  began.  "  Come,  ax  me  pardon  and 
I  '11  furgiv'  yez." 

"  Ah,  go  ahn !  "  said  McCormick,  suppressing 
bis  mirth,  for  his  mind  would  run  on  the  mud- 
puddle  and  the  pup. 

O'Grady  gazed  at  the  engineer  for  a  moment 
with  a  look  of  deep  disgust,  and  then,  lifting  the 
basket  of  eggs  that  he  had  left  on  the  end  of  a 
tie,  trailed  back  to  the  way-car. 

"  Keep  off  the  grass,  O'Grady,"  said  McCor- 
mick, but  the  brick-maker  ignored  him. 

It  was  the  day  before  Christmas,  and  O  Grady 
would  have  eggnog  always  on  Christmas  eve. 
The  conductor  signalled  all  right,  and  McCor- 
mick pulled  out.  Ht  had  a  long  string  of 
empty   flats   for  a  stone-man,  an  empty  box 


A   RU.WWtXG  Str/TC// 


97 


for  O'Grady's  spur,  and  various  other  cars,  and 
freight  for  all  the  Hag  stations  on  the  division. 

"  O'Grady  's  aboard/'  he  shouted,  as  he 
snatched  a  copy  of  the  running  orders  from 
the  conductor,  and  the  conductor,  recalling  the 
story  of  O'Grady  and  the  bull  pup,  smiled  up 
at  the  engineer,  but  said  nothing.  The  big 
mogul  had  picked  them  ;  .  ,  so  that  by  the 
time  the  way-car  came  along  they  were  making 
twenty  posts,  and  it  ws  as  i.iuch  as  the  con- 
ductor could  do  to  get  aboani.  The  brakeman 
and  the  brick-maker  were  having  an  animated 
argument  as  to  the  right  of  small  shippers  to 
travel  on  the  company's  trains  without  paying 
fare,  when  the  conductor  came  in. 

"  Now,  you  old  mud  dauber,"  began  the  cap- 
tain of  the  train,  "  I  give  you  notice  that  this 
is  the  last  time  you  ride  on  the  local.  What  do 
you  suppose  the  company  runs  varnished  cars 
for  but  to  carry  capitalists  to  and  from  their 
places  of  business  ?  " 

"  A-h-h-  go  t'  th'  divil." 

"  That  *s  where  we  're  headed,  and  if  we  were 
not  going  to  stop  there  anyway,  I  'd  ditch  you 
right  here." 


*«.-  ■•.w-o^  V  ♦  »>v  ••—<-«»•  ■¥-'*"r»  *•*»■•*♦  ♦♦•'•  "<*  t- •'*■•»' i«r.«Mfc- 


98 


A   RUNNING  SWITCH 


■:  ! 

•I  I 


f  << 


'  !    I, 


r<i  ■ 


All  that  was  lost  on  O'Grady,  for  the  warm 
stove  was  making  him  drowsy.  Five  miles  out 
they  stopped,  unloaded  a  lot  of  Christmas  goods, 
set  in  a  flat,  picked  up  a  load,  and  left  fifteen 
minutes  late.  Again  they  were  going  to  the 
Willows  for  the  limited,  and  when  Mac  whistled 
for  O'Grady's  the  conductor  stood  on  the  top  of 
the  caboose  and  signalled  him  to  make  a  run- 
ning switch  to  save  time.  The  head  brakeman 
cut  the  train  just  in  front  of  the  empty  that  was 
for  O'Grady,  the  rear  brakeman  pulled  the  pin 
behind  the  empty,  and  climbed  to  the  top  to 
ride  it  in  on  the  spur.  It  would  make  your  hair 
stand  to  see  the  train  falling  at  twenty  miles  an 
hour  into  O'Grady's  in  three  sections.  The 
engineer  must  fly  over  the  switch,  but  slow 
enough  to  allow  the  head  man  to  fall  off;  that 
man  must  find  his  feet  and  switch  key,  unlock 
the  switch,  get  it  over  to  the  spur  for  the  empty, 
and  back  again  to  the  main  line  for  the  rest  of 
the  train.  I  tell  you  it's  exciting,  and  one  of 
the  finest  jobs  in  the  train  service,  and  so  quick 
—  if  you  make  it  go.  If  the  lock  hangs  or  the 
switch  sticks,  then  you  have  to  couple  up,  back 
over  the  switch,  and  do  it  the  slow  way. 


A   RUNNING  SWITCH 


99 


McCormick  slid  over  the  switch  with  perfect 
confidence,  and  seven  cars  with  air  still  tied  to 
his  tank  ;  the  switch  went  over,  the  empty  jolted 
in  on  the  spur,  but  when  the  switchman  tried  to 
throw  the  switch  up  to  the  main  line  again  it 
stuck.  He  heaved  and  swore  and  signalled  the 
conductor  to  stop.  The  signal  was  not  seen  by 
the  captain,  but  he  had  seen  the  leaning  target 
and  was  already  twisting  brakes  for  dear  life. 

Of  course,  if  they  had  stayed  on  the  main  line 
they  would  have  had  ample  room  to  stop,  the 
two  brakemen  would  have  boarded  the  two  flats 
as  they  slid  past,  and  by  the  time  the  way-car 
had  reached  the  switch,  O'Grady  could  have 
stepped  off  without  cracking  an  egg ;  but  they 
were  going  in  on  the  spur,  where  the  empty 
had  bumped  up  against  four  cars  loaded  with 
brick,  and  all  the  brakes  set.  The  brakeman 
shouted  to  his  partner  and  stood  by.  The  con- 
ductor, seeing  the  head  car  shoot  in  on  the  spur, 
braced  himself,  holding  onto  a  brake-wheel  at 
the  rear  end  of  a  flat  car. 

Back  in  the  caboose  O'Grady,  with  the  basket 
of  eggs  in  front  of  him,  stood  in  the  back  door 
looking  at  the  two  strips  of  shining  steel  that 


M 


••  i 


^V\ 


•»  ♦  n  *  -J  v  - 


,.4^  ..^  '^mp  *fc.  -ip.  ^  ^e  *  *f  •^^  *»  *r  ^  «  ♦  H?  ^r**** 


If 


;'i    • 


I'l 


m 

'i'l 

/  ■' 

ifl 

( 

( 

l| 

il 

i;. 

lOO 


A    RUNNING  SiriTCII 


were  slipping  out  from  under  the  way-car.  The 
car  was  heavy  with  the  odor  of  alcohol.  It  is 
no  exaggeration  to  say  that  if  O'Cirady  had 
breathed  into  his  basket  he  might  have  had 
three  dozen  eggnogs  extra  strong.  Eut  he 
was  breathing  out  into  the  open  world,  with 
both  hands  holding  the  handle  of  the  basket 
that  crossed  his  anatomy  about  where  an  Arab 
wears  his  sash. 

So  stood  O'Crady  when  the  collision  oc- 
curred. When  car  after  car  had  taken  up  its 
slack  and  finally  it  came  to  the  caboose, 
O'Grady  was  shot  backward  the  full  length  of 
the  long  car.  Naturally  his  head  hung  forward, 
and  he  struck  the  heavy  oak  door  at  the  front 
end  of  the  car  with  such  force  that  his  shoulders 
splintered  a  panel  in  the  port,  and  the  breath, 
robust  as  it  was,  was  all  knocked  oui;  of  him. 
When  the  crew  came  back  to  look  for  the  dead- 
head they  found  him  stuck  fast  in  the  splintered 
door,  and  he  was  a  sight  to  see.  Three  dozen 
eggs  had  been  smashed  in  his  face  and  were 
trickling  through  his  whiskers  and  down  his 
front. 

When  they  had  pulled  him  from  the  broken 


A   RUNN/XG  SiVJTCH 


lOl 


door  they  found  that  his  right  shoulder  was 
broken,  but  that  he  was  stili  full  of  fight,  and 
curs,ng  Mccormick  for  making  an  enfergency 
stop  when  It  was  unnecessary. 

"  ^^'  "^^  1"'^''  yo"  old  custard,"  said  the 
rear  brakeman;  "you  have  no  business  on  a 
ireight  train,  anyway." 

"Haven't  oui?  Ye',,  have  your  fun  wud 
_0  Grady  out  wait  till  ye  hear  frum  O'Grady, 
U  sue  th'  company,  that  he  will." 


ta^'w-a!..',-.  ■V;:'*'r'.'f' »*>♦  •••»"  *•  ♦•».  *««,^.-.^ 


MiiitMMaMiaMk 


n    >     .**■..    -.^ 


r 


a; 


1 

i; 

! 

H       I 


H'il 


a  laerpmDtcular  Hailroao 


V 


I  j-«  r-mw  ^  *•■*«  ■*•-•* 


r-<r>-..,*fc^^^ 


ur 


i! 


.v— '^  ■j'f,'^'--  f' . 


A   PERPENDICULAR   RAILROAD 


WHEN  the  Calumet  Branch  was  built  it 
was  not  with  the  hope  of  increasing 
the  earnings  of  the  passenger  department,  but 
merely  to  bring  the  ore  down  from  the  iron 
mines  that  were  up  there.  In  fact,  when  the 
road  was  opened  trains  were  not  allowed  to 
carry  passengers  at  all.  About  two  hundred  and 
twenty  feet  to  the  mile  is  the  maximum  grade 
of  the  mountain  railways  of  this  country.  A 
steeper  road  is  neither  profitable  nor  safe.  The 
Calumet  Branch  ascends  four  hundred  and  eight 
feet  to  the  mile,  and  if  they  carried  passengers 
the  gross  earnings  would  not  pay  for  the  people 
they  would  kill. 

If  the  reader  can  imagine  himself  in  a  bucket 
going  down  a  well  after  the  rope  has  parted,  he 
can  form  a  very  good  idea  of  the  action  of  a 
locomotive   let  loose  on  a  four  hundred  and 


i 


I 


r 


1 06 


A   PERPENDICULAR  RAILROAD 


\\ 


Is  ! 


eight  foot  grade.  George  Russ  let  the  409 
get  away  from  him  one  day,  and  from  a  dead 
standstill  she  was  able  to  get  up  speed  enough 
to  throw  her  from  the  track  before  she  passed 
the  second  telegraph  pole.  They  found  her 
at  the  bottom  of  a  deep  gulch  and  drew  her 
mangled  remains  up  with  blocks  and  falls  and 
locomotives.  More  than  one  engineer,  after 
making  his  maiden  trip  over  the  Calumet  Branch, 
has  asked  for  a  change. 

The  writer  of  this  sketch  belonged  to  that 
class.  Old  "  King "  Cole  kept  the  run  a 
whole  summer  and  never  had  an  accident.  The 
Branch  was  always  closed  in  winter  the  same  as 
a  bathing  resort.  When  spring  came  again, 
and  the  old  man  was  called  for  the  Calumet,  he 
refused  to  sign  the  book. 

Of  course  there  was  not  a  man  on  the  divi- 
sion who  was  not  willing  to  face  death,  but  there 
were  other  runs,  longer,  to  be  sure,  but  more 
desirable. 

Whenever  a  new  man  was  employed  from 
an  Eastern  road  —  "  Prearie  sailors,"  we  used  to 
call  them  —  the  Calumet  run  was  offered  him. 
"  Here  's  a  short  run,"  De  Remer  the  foreman 


)  ,■■■ 


\L 


-.'■    ■'r  A*-*  ^-i^t  -*7-«  "r"— ■=-'  fcr.t—  ",•■;*— »»^  * 


.  «_^^__^^;»    . 


»  ^  W  »   -^    ^?.  \«,  -^^F^-iJW»    Wr*^   •rr  .W*    - 


A    PERPENDICULAR   RAILROAD 


107 


would  say;  "ten  miles,  one  trip  a  day,  pays 
four  dollars.  You  can  go  up  in  an  hour,  and 
come  down  — "  then  the  foreman  would  sup- 
press a  grin  and  glance  about  for  expert 
testimony.  "  How  fast  can  he  come  down, 
Cole?" 

"Fast  as  he  wants  to,"  says  the  old  man, 
sliding  off  the  "loafing  bench." 

"  Yo'  in  big  luck  if  yo'  don't  come  down  in  a 
wooden  ovahcoat,  sah,"  says  Mclvor,  oiling  the 
270.  Mclvor  always  had  that  playful  way  with 
strangers. 

Mr.  Lee,  the  travelling  engineer,  would  go 
out  with  the  new  man  the  first  day,  and  the 
next  day  the  new  man  would  go  out  alone  — 
looking  for  a  raikoad  that  was  not  so  high  at 
the  other  end. 

Mclvor  took  a  cruel  delight  in  taunting  the 
tenderfeet  who  tried  the  steep  run  and  found  it 
too  swift,  and  the  master  mechanic  determined 
to  take  it  out  of  the  Virginia  gentleman,  and 
ordered  him  out  on  the  Calumet.  Mclvor 
went  along  like  a  little  soldier,  but  when  they 
came  for  him  the  second  day  he  refused  to 
sign  the  book. 


'1 


,  ( 


1    \ 

i  I 


I 


IJ\ 


r   \ ' 

n 


108 


A    PERPEKDICULAR   RAILROAD 


"What's  the  matter  with  this  run?"  de- 
manded the  master  mechanic. 

"  Well,  there  's  nothin'  the  matlah  with  the  run, 
Mistah  Jones,  only  it  's  that  infu'nal  pu'pindic- 
ulah  I  can't  find  a  place  to  set  my  dinnah  pail." 

It  began  to  look  as  though  they  would  have 
to  promote  a  reckless  fireman  to  get  an  engineer 
for  the  Calumet  Branch,  when  Abe  Leonard 
rame,  unexpectedly,  to  the  company's  rescue. 
'*  Hardluck  "  Leonard,  as  he  was  called,  had 
worked  less  than  six  months  in  two  whole  years. 
He  had  gotten  lost  in  the  mountains  while  deer- 
hunting  and  had  his  feet  severely  frozen.  Be- 
fore he  was  able  to  work  he  allowed  himself  to 
get  hemmed  in  ''n  the  hallelujah  corner  of  a 
negro  revival  in  Leadville.  A  dusky  damsel, 
roaring  with  rapture,  tipped  the  stove  over,  set 
the  church  on  fire,  and  Leonard  got  burned. 

When  he  had  been  discharged  from  the  Hos- 
pital at  Salida,  he  went  down  to  Denver  to  get  a 
clearance  from  Chief  Surgeon  O'Connor  in  order 
to  collect  his  accident  insurance.  Leonard  went 
into  a  drug-store  to  stop  his  thirst,  the  soda-foun- 
tain blew  up,  and  Hardluck  went  out  through 
the  roof  and  then  back  to  the  Hospital. 


.  ♦.»<R  >,  (.wvvii^  »•  •  .♦.'y  ; ,  *.  ••  *  '^  ' 


'*^T. 


A   PERPEXniCULAR  RAILROAD 


109 


It  was  after  Iiis  fall  witli  tlic  soda-fountain 
tliat  Leonard  alarmed  tlie  master  mechanic:  l)y 
asking  for  the  Cahimet  run. 

"  He  's  cou'tin'  death,"  said  Mclvor;  and  for 
once  he  had  no  advice  or  discouragement  to 
offer.     He  had  been  over  the  road. 

"  Oh,  Abe !  wliy  do  you  take  that  run  ? " 
asked  Mrs.  Leonard,  with  blanched  face. 

"  It 's  safer  *n  Sunday-school,*'  said  Leonard, 
glancing  at  his  hand  that  had  been  caught  in 
the  burning  church. 

"  Gi  'me  the  death  run  an'  the  all-night 
saloon,  but  keep  me  away  from  camp-meetin' 
an'  sody-fountains." 

Mrs.  Leonard  wiped  the  tears  from  her  tired 
eyes  and  Abe  went  up  the  road  with  his  pilot 
fourteen  inches  higher  than  his  tank,  and  a  gage- 
cock  in  the  top  of  his  boiler. 

The  engineer  was  the  least  h.c  nervous  the 
first  day,  but,  when  his  associates  undertook  to 
poke  fun  at  him,  he  declared  that  he  had  seen 
worse  things  than  the  Calumet  run.  The  air  is 
delightful  up  there,  eight  or  ten  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea,  and  Leonard  continued  to  go 
up  and  down  the  hill  until  the  middle   of  the 


I 


l.v"*iT' 


I 


>4 


no 


A   PERPENDICULAR  RAILROAD 


summer  without  an  accident.  The  first  mishap 
was  the  kiUing  of  "Whiskey,"  the  famous  rail- 
road dog,  whose  story  will  be  told  at  another 
time. 

The  Branch  had  been  running  so  smoothly 
that  the  officials  had  ceased  to  worry  about  it, 
and  the  train  and  engine  crew  grew  almost 
careless  of  danger.  That 's  when  the  Indians 
come — when  nobody's  looking.  The  train 
used  to  go  up  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning 
and  come  down  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon. 
One  day,  in  the  latter  part  of  September,  it 
snowed  on  the  Calumet,  and  when  the  train 
started  down,  the  rail  was  wet  and  slippery,  for 
the  snow  was  melting  as  it  fell.  Leonard  knew 
the  danger  of  a  greasy  rail  and  was  proceeding 
very  cautiously.  The  locomotive  at  times  would 
hold  herself,  on  sand,  and  help  to  hold  the  train 
with  what  is  known  as  the  "  water-brake,''  but 
presently  the  sand  gave  out  or  the  pipes  got 
stopped  up  at  the  bottom  with  the  wet  snow, 
the  engine  slipped  and  lurched  and  broke  away 
from  the  train.  Of  course  that  parted  the  air 
hose  and  released  the  brakes.  The  conductor 
and  the  three   brakemen  were  on  top  of  the 


'•! 


*s»i^..,^«..*.<r*>«w*r-imT-*'?^fi»-rf.'t^'?f^^,^v.-^-*  -f  r;"*,*  p.^-!f*T^*_^-*T;T  *^SJB;'*.?;*TT"','~.S"t':*.'^~  "'^t" 


t 


A   PERPENDICULAR  RAILROAD 


I  T  T 


train  (a  man  to  each  car  an'l  the  brake  set  on 
the  caboose),  but  before  they  could  tighten  up 
the  hand-brakes  the  heavy  ore  cars  hit  the 
floundering  locomotive  and  sent  her  down  tlie 
track,  hke  a  sled  on  a  slide.  The  force  of 
the  collision,  while  it  gave  the  engine  a  fearful 
start,  helped  to  check  the  speed  of  the  train. 

Each  of  the  trainmen  carried  a  club,  which 
they  now  put  into  the  brake  wheels  and  cinched 
them  up  until  all  the  wheels  were  sliding.  The 
whirling  wheels  of  the  locomotive  (whirling  back- 
wards) dried  the  rail  so  .  lat  the  train  soon  came 
to  a  dead  stop. 

The  fireman,  who  had  been  standing  in  the 
gangway,  was  thrown  off  by  the  force  of  the  col- 
lision, and  Leonard  was  left  alone  with  the  help- 
less locomotive.  In  order  to  appreciate  the 
helplessness  of  the  engine  the  reader  should  un- 
derstand that  the  power  of  the  water-brake  does  n't 
come  from  the  water,  which  is  flowing  from  a 
small  pipe  into  the  cylinders,  but  from  the  fact 
that  the  engine  is  in  the  back  motion,  the  action 
of  the  pistons  creating  a  vacuum  in  the  cylinders, 
and  that 's  what  holds  the  locomotive  back  on  a 
steep  hill.    The  water  is  only  a  lubricant  to  pre- 


i 


■'-'K^S 


¥ 


1 

1\ 


ii' 


] 


Ml 


i  ^iii 


112 


A  PERPENDICULAR  RAILROAD 


vent  the  cylinders  frop'  becoming  heated  and 
injuring  the  metal.  When  there  is  too  much 
water  there  can  be  no  vacuum  and  no  resistance. 
Instinctively,  the  engineer  opened  the  throttle, 
the  boiler  was  well  filled  with  water  (as  it  must 
be,  going  down  a  steep  grade,  to  protect  the  flues 
and  crown-sheet),  the  water  rushed  into  the 
cylinders,  destroyed  the  holding  power,  and  the 
engine  ran  away.  If  he  jumped  off  on  his  side, 
he  would  go  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  rocky 
gulch.  If  he  were  able  to  cross  over  to  the 
fireman's  side  he  must  expect  to  be  slammed  up 
against  a  solid  stone  wall,  so  he  stayed  where  he 
was.  They  had  been  almost  down  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  hill  when  the  trouble  began,  and  now 
the  runaway  engine  was  nearing  the  junction 
with  the  main  line,  which  ran,  at  right  angles  to 
the  branch  line,  along  the  banks  of  the  Arkansas 
River.  Beyond  the  river  the  walls  of  Brown's 
canon  rose  abruptly  hundreds  of  feet,  and  there, 
Leonard  reasoned,  the  race  must  end. 

In  a  second  he  had  fashioned  to  himself  how 
the  engine  kvould  look  after  she  had  gone  against 
the  rock  wall  at  full  speed. 

Now,  he  began  to  wonder  whether  she  would 


I 


.  ►       •■,  -rtV\>  t 


r{,.*-.,; 


'iT.^'f:t.'%  ir:^' 


;v,*.<?'.^t  ;?.*;* 


A   PERPES'DICULAR  RAILROAD 


113 


hold  the  rail  until  they  reached  the  river,  for  the 
pace  was  maddening.  He  recalled,  strangely 
enough,  his  sufferings  in  the  hills,  and  the  flames 
that  scorched  him  in  the  crowded  church,  and 
that  he  had  at  no  time  been  without  hope.  He 
remembered  how,  as  he  went  out  through  the 
top  of  the  little  wooden  drug-store,  he  had  felt 
certain  that  he  was  not  injured  and  wondered 
how  he  would  light.  He  had  even  endeavored 
to  remain  right  side  up  as  he  came  down  and 
escaped  with  only  a  broken  limb. 

But  here  was  embarrassment.  There  was  not 
much  show  for  him,  but  he  set  about  (clinging 
to  the  cab  window)  to  figure  out  some  small 
chance  of  escape.  His  past  experience  had 
educated  him  for  just  such  an  emergency  and 
enabled  him  to  remain  perfectly  cool  at  the  half- 
open  door  of  death. 

Leonard's  hobby  was  pictures.  The  cab  of 
his  engine  was  literally  papered  with  pictures, 
but  what  he  liked  better  still  was  a  type-written 
motto  that  was  nailed  above  the  clock.  The 
clock  was  now  dancing  about  the  boiler-head 
with  the  tallow  pot  and  oil  cans.  He  could  not 
read  the  lines,  but  he  knew  them,  and  as  he  went 

8 


i 


T»'-f"<f'? 


114 


A   PERPENDICULAR  RAILROAD 


dashing  down  the  canon,  found  himself  repeat- 
ing them :  — 

"  We  come  to  this  world  naked  and  bare. 
Our  lives  are  filled  with  sorrow  and  care. 
We  go,  when  we  die,  we  know  not  where, 
But  if  we  're  all  right  here,  we  '11  be  all  right  there." 

Just  then  the  engine  crashed  over  the  main 
line  and  leaped  into  the  river.  But,  even  as  he 
recited  his  favorite  rhyme,  Leonard  had  figured 
out  a  possible  escape.  As  the  engine  neared 
the  river  he  stood  in  tlie  gangway,  and  the  mo- 
ment she  left  the  bank  he  leaped,  or  rather 
threw  himself  clear,  and  lit  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream.  He  was  dazed  by  the  force  of  the  fall, 
but  the  cold  water  revived  him,  and  in  a  few 
moments  he  had  gained  t'  ;  shore ;  and  to-day, 
for  what  I  know,  he  is  still  running  on  the  Calu- 
met Branch  of  the  Denver  and  Rio  Grande. 


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THE  WRECK  AT  ROUBIDEAU 


■n  OUBIDEAU  BRIDGE  was  a  long  wooden 
-^^     structure   spanning  the  Gunnison  a  few 
hundred  yards  to  the  east  of  Roubideau  tun- 
nel.     Emerging  from   the  tunnel,  east   bound, 
the  engineer  found  a  rail  curving  to  the  left' 
hugging  the  hill  that  hid  the  bridge  from  view 
until  his  engine  was  almost  upon  it.     That  was 
when  the  road  was  new.     Now  the  hill  has  been 
cut  away  and  the  track  straightened  from  the 
mouth  of  the  tunnel  to  the  bridge.     One  day  in 
August,    1883,  there   came   a   cloudburst   that 
flooded  the  western  slope  as,  old-timers  said,  it 
had   not   been  flooded  for  years.     The   steep 
watershed,  tipping  toward  the  sunset,  spilled  the 
flood  into  the  Cimarron  and  Uncompahgre,  and 
they  in  turn  poured  it  into  the  Gunnison  until 
the  stream  was  full  to  the  bank  tops. 

And  while  this  wild  river  went  roaring  down 
toward  the  cataracts  of  the  Colorado,    No.   8 


I' 


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Tf/E    IVRECK  A  T  ROUBIDEA  U 


came  screaming  up  among  the  curves  that  wind 
away  from  the  Utah  Desert  to  that  dark  and  dan- 
gerous crevice  called  the  Black  Canon.  Andy 
Began,  a  "  Q  "  man,  who  had  come  to  Colorado 
with  a  good  letter  and  one  lung,  had  the  first 
section  of  No.  8,  an  express,  mail,  and  baggage 
car,  out  of  Grand  Junction  that  night  forty  min- 
utes late.  What  the  Mormon  had  lost  climbing 
Soldier  Summit  Degan  was  expected  to  make  up 
going  down  Cero  Hill.  Down  there  in  the 
canon  he  was  striving  only  to  lose  no  more  time, 
for  he  was  a  new  man  running  for  a  reputation. 
Like  all  the  old  Burlington  men,  he  was  an  ex- 
pert driver,  and  took  hazard  cheerfully,  realizing, 
it  would  seem,  that  he  had,  at  best,  only  a  few 
years  to  live.  He  had,  this  night,  what  was 
called  a  Rockaway  engine,  a  high,  short,  com- 
pact locomotive,  built  for  the  kinks,  so  numerous 
in  the  first  rough  draft  of  the  Denver  and  Rio 
Grande  Railroad.  The  night  was  still  and  starlit, 
the  earth  was  dry,  and  the  silvery  river  on  his 
right  rippled  away  over  the  rocks,  clear  as  crys- 
tal. The  Rockaway  made  easy  work  of  the 
three  light  cars,  steamed  like  the  Sprudel  Brunn 
at  Carlsbad,  and  ran  like  a  deer.    When  the 


'  { 


T 


THE    IVRECK  A  T  ROUBIDEA  U 


119 


fireman  was  not  fooling  around  the  furnace  door, 
he  hung  over  the  arm-rest  and  watched  the 
world  go  by.  Degan,  gaunt-faced  and  silent, 
sat  at  the  open  window  trying  the  water  and 
whisding  for  curves.  Uncle  Sam's  servant  in 
the  mail  car  was  shuffling  letters  and  newspapers. 
He  had  finished  the  Ouray  bag,  which  he  would 
leave  at  Montrose,  the  Crested  Buttcs  and  Ruby 
Camp  bags  to  be  dropped  at  Gunnison,  and  was 
now  making  '  the  Leadville  pouch  for  Salida. 
Over  in  the  express  car  the  messenger,  hung  about 
with  six-shooters  and  stretched  upon  a  canvas 
cot  billed  to  the  agent  at  Sapanero,  was  stealing 
a  little  sleep.  Degan,  being  east  bound,  had  the 
right  of  way,  and  looked  at  his  watch  only  occa- 
sionally to  figure  where  No.  7  would  meet  him. 
His  orders  ran  him  thirty  minutes  late  and  made 
it  the  business  of  No.  7  to  fix  and  make  the 
passing  point.  The  first  section  of  No.  8  was 
probably  making  forty  miles  an  hour  when  Degan 
whistled  for  Roubideau  tunnel.  A  moment  later 
it  was  swinging  around  the  curve  where  the  dark 
river  lay  in  the  shadow  of  the  hill.  While 
Degan,  leaning  out  of  his  window,  strained  his 
eyes  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  bridge,  the  Rockaway 


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THE    WRECK  AT  ROUBIDEAU 


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turned  sharply  to  the  right  and  headed  straight 
for  the  open  river.  Below  the  tunnel  it  had 
been  a  silvery,  starlit  stream  ;  here  it  was  a  roar- 
ing river,  running  bank-full  of  black  water.  For 
an  instant  Degan  thought  the  engine  had  left 
the  track,  but  feeling  the  rails  still  beneath  her 
wheels,  he  realized  a  second  later  that  the  bridge 
was  gone.  The  fireman  saw  the  break  in  the 
track  and  leaped  out  of  the  cab  as  the  engine 
plunged  into  the  boiling  flood.  Degan,  at  the 
first  scent  of  danger,  closed  the  throttle  and  ap- 
plied the  air.  As  the  engine  dropped  over  the 
bank  she  turned  on  her  side,  releasing  the  patent 
coupling,  and  at  the  same  time  parting  the  air 
hose,  applied  the  automatic  pressure  to  the 
wheels  of  the  three  light  cars  so  suddenly  and 
so  effectually  that  only  the  mail  car  tipped  over 
and  hung  with  her  nose  in  the  water.  The  mail 
agent  climbed  to  the  side  doer,  and,  with  the 
help  of  the  bleeding  fireman,  succeeded  in  es- 
caping from  the  slanting  car.  When  the  postal 
clerk  and  the  fireman  pounded  on  the  door  of 
the  express  car  the  messenger,  waking  suddenly, 
warned  them  if  they  attempted  to  enter  the  car 
he  would  shoot.     The   deafening  roar  of  the 


THE    WRECK  A  T  ROURIDEA  U 


121 


river  made  it  impossible  for  them  to  hear  what 
he  said,  and  when  they  began  to  heave  great 
stones  against  the  car  door  he  made  good  his 
word ;  nor  did  he  stop  until  a  dozen  forty-five 
calibre  bullets  had  crashed  through  the  door  and 
sides  of  the  car.  After  waiting  for  some  time  the 
messenger  concluded  that  the  robbers  had  been 
frightened  away,  and  cautiously  peeped  out. 

"  Well,  you  idiot,"  said  the  postal  clerk  from 
beneath  the  car,  "  are  you  out  of  ammunition  ?  " 

Degan  lived  a  lifetime  in  the  moment  when 
the  Rockaway  was  leaping  into  the  flood.  When 
the  engine  struck  bottom,  twenty  feet  from  the 
surface,  she  began  rolling  over  and  over  like  a 
corncob  in  a  flooded  barnyard.  The  picture  of 
his  past  life  which  had  been  suddenly  flashed 
before  his  eyes  now  disappeared,  and  the  en- 
gineer, hopeless  as  it  may  seem,  found  himself 
watching  for  an  opportunity  to  slip  out  of  the 
cab  of  the  rolling  engine.  Now  he  felt  the  en- 
gine slam  up  against  a  big  boulder  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  river,  and  at  the  same  time  his  hands 
grasped  a  floating  something.  It  was  the  fire- 
man's waste-box,  and  the  engineer,  holding  hard 
to  it,  was  dragged  out  of  the  cab  and  carried  to 


Ml 


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122 


THE    iVRECK  A  T  ROUBIDEA  U 


\    ;i 


;ii    , 


the  surface.  He  had  barely  time  to  breathe 
when  a  floating  drift  swept  over  him,  forcing  him 
into  the  water  again.  He  held  to  the  waste-box, 
having  a  hand  in  one  of  the  handles,  and  was 
soon  brought  to  the  breast  of  the  river  again. 
All  this  had  occurred  in  a  very  brief  space  of 
time,  but  Began  was  not  a  strong  man,  and  the 
strain  was  beginning  to  tell  on  him.  Once  in  a 
while,  above  the  billows  of  the  boiling  flood,  he 
got  a  glimpse  of  the  low  banks  of  the  river 
running  backward  in  the  dim  starlight.  The 
roar  was  deafening.  The  river  surged  against 
the  sands,  the  banks  crumbled,  and  great  cotton- 
wood  trees  that  had  stood  there  for  half  a  cen- 
tury swayed  to  and  fro,  and  finally  fell  into  the 
roaring  flood.  At  times  the  waste-box  swung 
near  the  shore,  eddied  back,  and  then  shot  down 
the  middle  of  the  river  at  a  furious  rate.  Unless 
you  have  seen  a  mountain  stream  at  flood  you 
can  form  only  a  faint  notion  of  the  force  and 
speed  of  the  Gunnison  running  bank-full.  Great 
rocks  of  the  size  of  a  sleeping  car  are  rolled 
along  at  the  bottom  of  the  river,  as  marbles 
are  rolled  by  the  stream  of  a  garden  hose,  and 
here,  at  the  door  of  death,  Began  turned  to 


THE    WRECK  A  T  ROUBIDEA  U 


123 


look,  and  was  awed  by  the  awfulness  of  the  wild 
scene.  When  first  he  found  himself  at  the  front 
of  a  fast  express,  timing  the  train  with  a  touch 
of  his  hand,  fixing  the  speed  by  the  turn  of  a 
lever,  he  had  marvelled,  as  most  men  do,  at  the 
speed  and  power  of  the  locomotive  ;  but  all  that 
was  mean  and  tame  compared  with  the  force  of 
this  fearful  flood. 

As  Degan  began  feeling  strong  again  and  was 
watching  a  chance  to  pull  for  the  shore,  the 
leafy  top  of  a  falling  tree  caught  him  and 
dragged  him  below.  Tangled  among  the  boughs 
with  his  waste-box,  the  desperate  driver  fought 
with  all  his  strength,  and  in  a  little  while  felt 
the  waste-box  bearing  him  up  and  on  once  more. 
He  was  now  in  a  narrow,  straight  chute,  at  the 
lower  end  of  which  the  river  made  a  short  bend 
to  the  left,  and  away  from  the  railroad  track. 
Degan  saw  the  curve  and  hoped  that  he  might 
be  thrown  upon  the  bank  at  the  bend,  and  the 
next  instant  the  box  was  driven  hard  against  a 
huge  rock  and  went  to  pieces. 

When  Degan  regained  consciousness  he  was 
lying  full  length  upon  the  flat  top  of  the  rock 
against  which  his  life-preserver  had  been  wrecked. 


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124 


THE   WRECK  A  T  ROUBIDEA  U 


U. 


The  gray  dawn  was  upon  the  river,  that  was  al- 
ready settling  back  to  its  normal  bed.  His 
clothing  was  torn,  his  hands  bleeding,  his  bones 
ached  with  the  chill  of  the  morning.  One  of  his 
legs  was  broken,  and  the  pain  of  it  made  him 
feel  faint.  The  river  was  falling  rapidly.  If  he 
could  walk  at  all  he  could  walk  ashore  without 
getting  water  in  his  trousers'  pockets.  The  sun 
came  up  and  dried  his  over-clothes  and  warmed 
the  rock  upon  which  he  lay. 

Presently  he  heard  a  locomotive  screaming 
down  the  canon,  and  when  she  came  round  the 
curve  he  flagged  her.  Behind  the  engine  was 
a  wrecking  train,  coming  up  from  the  junction 
to  find  and  fish  the  Rockaway  out  of  the  river. 

The  crew  were  greatly  rejoiced  to  find  Degan. 
They  bore  him  tenderly  to  the  way-car  and  car- 
ried him  to  the  company's  hospital  at  Salida, 
and  there  it  was  he  told  the  story  of  the  Roubi- 
deau  wreck. 


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THE  BL^CK  FLIERS 


"JYJONDAY,  January  2,  1899,  was  the  date 
J^^A  fixed  by  Uncle  Sam  for  the  shrinking  of 
the  continent.  Beginning  with  that  day.  the 
North  Atlantic  and  Pacific  coasts  were  brought 
thirteen  hours  nearer  to  each  other. 

A  fast  mail  train  left  Boston;  another  left 
New  York;  the  two  fiowed  logether  at  Buffalo, 
and  entered  Chicago  over  the  Lake  Shore.  At 
the  same  time  the  east-bound  service  left  the 
Pacific  Coast  and  began  a  race  across  the  con- 
tinent. Hundreds  of  thousands  of  government 
and  railway  officials  and  employees  were  intensely 
interested  in  the  new  service. 

All  day  the  driver  of  the  black  flier  that  was 
to  tPi.e  the  fast  mail  out  of  Chicago  worked 
ciDout  the  big  machine,  going  underneath,  com- 
ing out  of  the  pit,  and  working  round  and  round. 


»»<mmimmmm 


mm 


krlMN»*«4»A«A«tt< 


■tjti**  im  nttiik  iJ ., »,. 


PfT 


128 


THE  BLACK  FLIERS 


Every  nut  and  bolt,  from  the  point  of  the  pilot 
to  the  tail  of  the  tank,  was  tightened  or  tested. 
All  day  a  sympathetic  crowd  of  employees,  from 
the  master-mechanic  to  the  call-boy,  stood  about 
looking  at  the  quiet  steed  that  was  to  play  an 
important  part  in  the  most  important  race  in  .he 
history  of  this  (to  their  minds)  the  most  impoi 
tant  railroad  on  earth.  There  was  not  a  spot 
upon  her  blue-black  jacket  that  the  fireman  di  1 
not  dust  a  dozen  times  that  day;  and  the;-;  'i  e 
wipers  came,  squatted  upon  their  waste-boxes, 
and  v,''ped  her  wheels  and  links  and  rocker-arms. 
The  coal-tender  had  been  emptied  and  filled 
with  fresh  fuel,  the  water-tank  had  been  washed 
out,  and  all  the  feed-pipes  and  air-pipes  cleansed 
and  tested. 

When  night  came  on,  the  driver  wiped  his 
hands  on  a  piece  of  soft  wool  waste  and  went 
away  to  supper.  Now  the  night  shift  came  and 
lighted  lamps  all  about  the  black  racer,  and  a 
watchman  walked  up  past  the  point  of  her  pilot 
and  down  by  the  tail  of  her  tank,  never  losing 
sight  of  the  engine. 

It  was  not  that  the  one  road  fea*"ed  the  other; 
but  there  are  always  dangerous  mtn  who  have 


THE  BLACK  FLIERS 


129 


l)een  discharged  for  incompetency,  or  who  may 
have  a  grudge  against  an  official,  or  who  may  be 
jealous  of  the  crew.     A  man  might  steal  up  to 
the  side  of  an  engine,  loosen  a  set  screw,  and 
with  a  single  blow  of  a  copper  hammer,  that 
could  not  be  heard  a  hundred  feet,  send  a  key- 
wedge  so  tight  that  the  pin  would  be  ablaze  in 
the  first  five  miies.     A  small  bit  of  soap  in  the 
feed-hose   would    make   her  froth,   foam,   and 
sputter,  and  lose  the  race  that  means  more  than 
a  million  to  the  management.     To  be  sure,  the 
prize  for  which  they  were  contesting  was  only 
three-fourths  of  a  milh'on,  but  it  was  worth  as 
much  more  in  glory  to  the  w'nner. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  driver  came  back,  threw 
the  stub  of  a  cigar  into  the  pit,  and  donned  his 
over-clothes.  The  fiieman  was  already  in  the  cab, 
and  now  the  driver  touched  the  throttle.  The 
big  rnccr  stirred,  and  moved  slowly  out  of  her 
stall.  A  moment  later  she  swung  majestically 
on  the  table,  as  a  great  ship  turns  in  a  wide  har- 
bor, stopped,  and  then  jacked  away  to  her  train. 
\x\\  as  these  men  hr.d  handled  the  engine  at 
Chicago,  so  had  other  (,'ngines  been  made  ready 
at  the  division  stations  all  along  the  line. 


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130 


THE  BLACK  FLIERS 


At  noon,  January  3,  Superintendent  Troy,  of 
the  Railway  Mail  Service,  said  the  Lake  Shore 
was  an  hour  and  a  half  late.  At  4  p.  m.  she  was 
thirty  minutes  late.  At  nine  o'clock,  when  the 
engine  backed  to  the  fast  mail,  the  Post  Ofifice 
Department  asked  the  railway  officials  to  hold 
the  west-bound  Burlington  train  fifteen  minutes, 
?^<^  they  agreed  to  do  it.  But  the  Lake  Shore 
v\  lOt  fifteen  minutes  late.  She  came  to  a  stop 
two  minutes  ahead  of  time.  The  hundreds  of 
mail-bags  were  thrown  into  eighteen  waiting 
wagons,  and  the  horses  galloped  away  for  the 
Burlington  station.  For  more  than  an  hour  a 
force  of  men  had  been  loading  the  cars,  and 
now,  to  increase  the  rush,  the  Pennsylvania  fast 
mail  pulled  in  alongside  the  Burlington  tracks, 
and  the  employees  began  piling  off  mail  from 
Baltimoie,  Pittsburg,  Washington,  and  Philadel- 
phia. 

In  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time  the  trucks 
were  cleared,  the  signal  was  given,  and  at  nine 
twenty-five  the  wheels  of  the  big  black  Baldwin 
began  to  turn.  She  tightened  her  traces,  and  the 
"  people's  train  "  moved  out  of  the  shed  only  ten 
minutes  late.  A  big  crowd  had  gathered  to  see  the 


I 


THE  BLACK  FLIERS 


13T 


Start,  and  now  they  cheered  and  waved  their  hats 
as  the  train  nulled  out.  The  rail  was  slippery  from 
the  constant  dripping  of  over-oiled  yard  engines 
and  it  was  not  until  we  had  made  the  last  cross- 
ing stop  and  put  the  lights  of  the  city  behind  us 
that  she  was  able  to  hold  the  rail. 

"  You  can  throw  your  watch  in  the  clothes- 
box,"  said  the  master-mechanic  to  the  engineer  • 
"you  won't  want  it  to-night."  ' 

That  meant  that  he  might  go  as  fast  as  the 
wheels  could  turn,  because  we  were  ten  minutes 
late.     But  the  driver  held  on  to  his  watch. 

The  General  Passenger  Agent  had  wired  play- 
Mlly  that  the  General  Manager  would  be  on 
board  the  fast  mail,  and  would  be  pleased  to 
have  the  representative  of  "Harper's  Weekly"  in 
the  engine  cab,  provided  he  would  promise  not 
to  fall  out  of  the  window.  The  pledge  was  made, 
and  I  shudder  now  to  think  how  very  nearly  it 
came  to  being  broken. 

When  the  big  engine  had  passed  the  «get- 
yer-bag-gage,  get-yer-bag-gage  "  point,  when  the 
stack  had  begun  to  flutter  incoherently,  the 
General  Manager,  who  stood  immediately  behind 
me,  shouted  in  my  ear,  "  Thirty-eight  miles,  forty- 


^mmgm  m  mmym  ■  !■  w,i  ■  mmm% 


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M<»w«4MM- M  «»|i' »-• -<« 


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132 


THE  BLACK  FLIERS 


two  minutes  !  "  We  had  made  two  full  stops  at 
crossings.     We  were  passing  Aurora  on  time. 

Well,  it  did  not  seem  fast.  A  seven-foot 
wheel  is  deceiving.  At  each  revolution  —  and 
they  come  as  fast  as  a  Frenchm.in  can  say  "  Zip, 
zip,  zip,  zip  "  —  she  goes  three  feet  farther  than 
a  six-foot  wheel  will  go. 

The  Burlington  locomotives  take  water  from 
standpipes  and  tanks.  At  Mendota  the  driver 
closed  the  throttle,  the  "  pop  "  flew  open,  and, 
amid  a  smell  of  brimstone,  this  one  hundred  and 
thirty  thousand  pounds  of  steel  and  coal  and 
water  was  held  back  and  stopped  almost  within 
a  train-length.  While  the  brakeman  filled  the 
tank,  the  engineer  and  his  fireman,  each  with  a 
blazing  torch,  darted  about  the  engine,  dropping 
a  little  oil  here  and  there,  and  in  a  few  moments 
we  were  off  again. 

The  run  to  Galesburg,  which  is  one  hundred 
and  sixty-three  miles  out,  was  uneventful.  The 
driver  was  actually  killing  time.  At  Galesburg  the 
General  Manager  showed  his  good  judgment  and 
went  back  to  the  rear.  Now  a  handsome  young 
man  with  a  sketching  outfit  came  and  stood  be- 
hind me  in  the  cab.  He  would  make  sketches  of 


isA*'— >' 


THE  BLACK  FLIERS 


"^Z^ 


the  men  as  they  worked.  In  three  minutes  he  be- 
came uneasy,  in  four  minutes  he  had  shoved  his 
apparatus  between  the  waste-box  and  the  wall, 
and  a  moment  later  was  hanging  on  for  dear  life. 
I  learned  from  the  General  Manager  before  he  left 
me  that  Burlington,  the  next  stop,  lay  at  the  foot 
of  a  forty-mile  slope ;  forty  miles  of  down  hill, 
leaving  Galesburg  a   few  minutes   late,  and   a 
driver  with  a  devilish  desire  to  give  the  dead- 
heads a  whirl  for  their  money,  made  a  picture 
that  I  did  not  enjoy.     A  mile  a  minute  on  a 
straight    track  is  all  right ;  but  when  you  pass 
that  point,  and  begin  to  hit  curves,  and  reverse 
curves,  pitched  for  forty-five  posts  and  hit  them 
at  sixty-five,  it  is  hard  on  the  nerves.     You  find 
yourself  straining  to  the  curve  to  help  hold  the 
engine  on  the  rail  until  your  sides  ache,  and  she 
goes  around  apparently  on  one  rail ;  then  when 
she  finds  the  tangent   you  get  another  shock. 
Now,  you  say,  here  the  rail  runs  straight  away, 
and  the  next  moment  this  great  bulk,  these  thou- 
sands of  pounds  of  steel  and  coal  and  water  and 
you,  dart  suddenly  to  the  right,  and  you  think 
she  has  left  the  rail ;  but  she  is  only  switching  to 
the  proper  channel  of  a  double  track. 


_#t.  *•» 


li  <■ 


:   ! 


■ 


.'  1' 


M- 


I 


/I  ;t 


134 


r//£  BLACK  FLIERS 


The  artist  kept  asking  me  to  guess  at  the 
speed  slie  was  going,  and  said  he  had  heard 
some  prediction  that  we  would  touch  a  ninety- 
mile  gait  before  we  reached  the  river.  "  Is  that 
not  ninety  ?  "  he  asked  ;  but  I  had  not  the  nerve 
or  voice  to  answer.  On  she  went  like  a  Kansas 
cyclone,  swinging  over  culverts  and  bridges,  now 
gliding  down  a  swale,  and  then  turning  suddenly 
to  the  right  or  left,  following  the  bend  of  the  low 
bluffs.  On  she  swept  through  sags  and  over 
swells.  Through  curves  and  cafions  the  grimy 
driver  steered  the  big  machine,  playing  with  dan- 
ger like  a  man  who  is  unhappily  married.  Now, 
as  she  rolled  and  pitched,  so  that  I  was  obliged 
to  kick  the  seat  down,  the  artist  grabbed  my 
arm  again.  *'  Now  ?  "  he  asked.  I  nodded  yes 
emphatically ;  for  if  she  was  not  making  ninety 
miles,  she  was  not  moving. 

Presently,  with  a  wild  shriek,  we  shot  out 
upon  the  long  bridge,  and  a  moment  later  were 
beyond  the  Mississippi  and  in  the  real  West. 

Softly  now,  and  without  any  show  of  pride  in 
what  he  had  done,  my  companion  stole  out  of 
the  cab  and  into  one  of  Uncle  Sam's  letter- 
wagons. 


THE  BLACK  FLIERS 


135 


Burlington  is  two  hundred  and  six  miles,  and, 
by  this  run,  four  hours  west  of  Chicago.  One 
engine  crew  had  brought  us  the  entire  distance. 
They  had  earned  their  wages  quickly,  but,  as  the 
General  Manager  observed,  marking  the  per- 
formance of  the  fireman,  they  earned  every  bit 
of  it. 

'  Here  we  gave  up  the  590  for  another  engine, 
with  a  wheel  four  inches  lower.  At  each  zip,  zip 
she  would  not  go  so  far  by  a  foot  as  the  other 
did,  but  her  "  zips  "  came  close  together,  like  the 
click  of  the  sickle  in  a  mowing-maciiine,  and  in 
a  little  while  the  rail  was  rushing  beneath  her 
throbbing  throat  like  a  swiftly,  smoothly  running 
river. 

The  pale  remnant  of  a  hold-over  moon,  worn 
thin  like  an  old  brake-shoe,  came  out  of  the  east, 
peeped  over  my  shoulder,  and  shone  along  the 
cold  steel  beyond  the  flash  of  the  head-light.  I 
began  to  nod,  for  it  was  far  past  midnight.  Now 
this  engine  began  to  roll  just  as  the  other  did. 
The  cab  window  slammed  up  against  my  head, 
and  immediately  I  was  wide  awake.  Somewhere 
Field  has  recorded  the  fact  in  rhyme  that  the 
farther  west  you  go,  the  redder  grows  the  paint ; 


■  4^  ,.';'5.«-;*«»'* 


136 


THE   BLACK  FLIERS 


^    I 


and  now  I  observed  that  the  farther  west  we  got, 
the  harder  these  daring  drivers  hit  the  curves. 
After  leaving  the  engine  the  General  Manager 
said  to  the  newspaper  men,  standing  wide-legged 
in  the  swinging  mail  car,  that  this  driver  had 
been  on  the  fast  mail  for  a  dozen  years.  Well, 
I  should  not  care  to  hazard  even  a  guess  that  he 
will  be  there  twelve  years  from  to-night  if  he 
keeps  up  this  gait.  So  far  we  have  touched 
every  town  on  time,  and  often  ahead  of  time. 
At  a  flag-station  we  had  four  minutes  to  kill. 
When  the  time  was  up,  the  engineer  gave  them 
the  bell,  and  got  a  "stop  "  signal  from  a  hand- 
lamp  in  the  rear.  A  gaunt  youth  put  his  hand 
up  to  the  side  of  his  face  and  yelled  at  the  en- 
gineer, "  Hot  hub  on  letter- wagon."  Cooling 
the  box  we  lost  eleven  minutes,  leaving  seven 
minutes  late.  Seven  minutes  later  the  driver, 
having  relighted  his  cigar  stub,  was  swinging  us 
around  curves  that  were  not  put  there  to  be  used 
in  that  way.  There  was  no  flutter  from  the  stack 
now,  but  a  steady  roar  —  a  wild,  hoarse  cry. 
The  black  flier  leaped  and  rolled  and  plunged 
so  that  the  bell,  driven  by  steam,  hiccoughed 
and  stammered,  until  some  one  reached  over  and 


I 


.>ir«t>fc-rf*B»'tft>»4  Ifc-**"* 


I 


THE  BLACK  FLIERS 


137 


shut  it  oflf.  In  a  few  minutes  we  crashed  through 
a  small  station,  and  as  the  green  and  white  lights 
brushed  by  our  windows  the  driver  yelled  over 
the  boiler-head  at  me,  "  On  time."  In  twenty- 
six  miles  we  had  made  up  seven  minutes,  and 
dashed  into  Creston,  Iowa,  two  minutes  before 
we  were  expected. 

The  fresh  engine  slipped  and  fretted.    The 
driver  touched  the  three-way  cock  to  see  that 
the  air  was  off.    He  opened  the  sand-valve  once 
or  twice,  and  immediately  we  felt  the  fine  gravel 
crushing  beneath  her  cold  wheels,  felt  her  lifting 
the  train,  felt  the  west  wind  pushing  hard  against 
the  front  of  the  cab,  and  pulled  our  heads  inside. 
The  driver,  appreciating  the  importance  of  the 
run,  seemed  a  little  impatient  because  she  slipped 
again,  after  getting  well  under  way,  and,  instead 
of  helping  her  out  by  quick'y  closing  the  throttle 
—  just  for  a  second— he  dropped  sand  under 
her  and  allowed  her  to  catch  herself  as  best  she 
could,  as  the  driver  of  a  trotter,  when  the  horse 
breaks,  whips  him  down  to  his  wcl  again  in- 
stead of  holding  him  up.     Almost  mstantly  she 
found  her  feet,  and  away  she  went,  sniffing  and 


i 


**^-)flf^lW  - . 


138 


THE   BLACK  FLIERS 


w  \ 


ih 


snorting  in  the  frosty  night.  But  the  steel  was 
cold  and  hard  and  glassy,  and  now  and  again 
she  would  get  away.  Her  wheels  would  whirl 
so  furiously  that  the  driver  dared  not  hold  his 
throttle  wide.  The  moment  she  slipped  he 
gripped  the  lever  to  help  her  if  she  failed  to 
catch  herself,  and  at  the  same  instant  a  faithful 
fireman  opened  the  furnace  door,  so  as  to  pre- 
vent her  tearing  her  fire  in  holes  and  pasting  her 
flue-sheet  with  the  fuel,  that  is  like  thick  black- 
strap in  a  white-hot  fire-box.  Always  above  the 
roar  of  the  wheels  you  could  hear  the  low  burr 
of  the  injector  that  was  throwing  thirty-five  gal- 
lons of  water  a  minute  into  the  big  boiler 
more  than  half  a  gallon  a  second  it  took  to  c . 
her  burning  thirst. 

When  the  pointer  on  the  steam-gauge  touched 
the  blow-off  mark,  and  a  ribbon  of  white  steam 
fluttered  away  above  her  back,  the  fireman  left 
the  door  ajar  to  save  the  water  that  would  thus 
be  wasted,  and  the  watchful  driver  opened  the 
injector  the  least  bit  wider  to  save  the  fuel.  At 
other  times  I  would  hear  the  singing  of  the  left- 
hand  injector  in  addition  to  the  one  that  was 
feeding  the  engine  regularly,  and  it  sang  in  my 


THE   BLACK  FLIERS 


139 


ear  above  the  roar  of  the    train,  precisely  as   a 
locust  sings  on  a  tree  twig  close    beside   your 
head,  and  in  a  moment,  with  the  heavy  click  of 
the  check-valve,  I  would  hear   him  shut  it   off 
again.     Here  are  some  more  curves  and  reverse 
curves,  the  passing  of  which  makes  the  blood 
chill,  and  makes  you  tremble  and  feel  yourself 
face  to  face  with  eternity,  for  it  seems  impossi- 
ble now  for  her  to  hold  the  rail.     Frankly,  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life  I  felt  every  hair  on  my 
head  tingle  at  the  roots ;  and   then   came   the 
sweetest  music  that  ever  smote    my  ear  —  the 
hiss  and  blow   of  the   three-way  cock.     Three 
times   this    dare-devil   driver  let   off    air,   and 
clamped   the   brake-shoes    to   the   wheels   that 
were  whirling  at  a  mile  and  a  half  a  minute. 
Ah,  that  did  me  good.     He  too  had  felt   her 
tremble ;  had  felt  her  shake,  slam,  and  wrestle 
with  the  rail  on  that  reverse  curve,  —  a  curve 
scarcely  perceptible  to  the  naked  eye,  and  one 
that  would  not  be  felt  by  a  passenger  on  board 
the  Denver  Limited,  but  a  curve  so  wicked  and 
severe  that  it  froze  my  blood  for  a  second ;  but 
now  the  driver,  who,  after  all,  is  but  human,  and 
in  no  great  hurry  to  meet  his  Maker,  saw  that  he 


il 


7«ll^^:^^« 


■  -iaiiSiSai- 


ri!: 


140 


THE  BLACK  FLIt    S 


il' 


had  reached  the  limit,  and  began  to  steady  her. 
The  clamp  of  the  brake-shoes  soon  brought 
her  down  to  a  smooth  gait,  and  she  trembled 
aw3y  down  the  line,  with  opposing  passenger 
trains,  long  creeping  freight  trains,  and  sleeping 
v'illages  brushing  by  us  like  ghosts  in  the  night. 

Always  at  the  furnace  door  I  saw  the  fire- 
man watching  and  working,  —  for  on  an  express 
engine  these  soot-soiled  heroes  watch  each  other 
and  work  together  as  two  finished  musicians 
play  a  duet.  The  fireman  is  going  to  school 
now.  Here  he  receives  the  education  that  will 
fit  him  for  the  post  at  the  right-hand  side  of  the 
cab.  When  he  has  stood  three,  four,  or  five 
years  at  the  furnace  door,  marking  each  move 
made  by  the  engineer,  he  will  be  able  to  do  the 
trick.  He  will  be  a  better  runner  than  can  be  pro- 
duced by  promoting  an  expert  machinist  who  has 
not  the  necessary  road  experience.  A  man  may 
be  able  to  build  a  bicycle,  but  if  he  has  never  been 
on  board  one,  he  will  not  be  able  to  steer  until  he 
has  mastered  that,  which  is  another  trade. 

This  Burlington  fast  mail  is  not  the  only  liier 
abroad  to-night.  A  few  miles  to  the  north,  and 
only  a  little  way  behind  us,  we  are   reasonably 


1  r 


THE  BLACK  FLIERS 


141 


sure  that  the  Chicago  and  Northwestern's  splen- 
did  locomotive    is   trembUng   up   through   the 
dawn,  — engines  ?s  fine  and  fast  as  money  can 
buy,  and  over  a  road-bed  that  is  scarcely  to  be 
excelled  anywhere  upon  this  continent.     Side  by 
side,  almost  neck  and  neck,  they  are  racing  with 
us  over  this  five  hundred  mile  course,  and  not 
a  man  among  us  but  believes  that  we  shall  be  at 
the  river  on  time,  and  that  when  the  moment 
arrives  for  the  rival  train  to  show  up  it  will  l,e 
there  on  the  strike  of  the  clock.     No,  thi^.   is 
not  a  race  to  see  who  can  go  quickest  from  the 
great  railroad  centre  to  the  river.    To  inaugurate 
such  a  scheme  as   that  would  be  wicked  aid 
dangerous,  for  no  man  knows  the  limit  of  tiiC 
speed  of  these  black  fliers.     That  can   only  be 
determined  by  putting  one  of  them  in  the  ditch. 
Then,  gazing  on  the  ruin,  we  might  truthfully 
say  she  had  reached  the  limit.     This   time   is 
fast  enough,  and  I  believe  it  can  be  made   on 
either  road  on  an  average  of  three  hundred  and 
sixty  days  in  a  year. 

We  are  making  it  so  -asily  now  that  it  does 
seem  at  times  slow;  bi,t  a  half-thousand  railss  in 
a  little  over  ten  hours  is  not  bad. 


■  »'"-*"?AJ!-'*'''J 


•  ^  f  S  p»;«^*  (-P..W 


SS^'-ill^.- 


1 

i 


»    • 


142 


Tf/E  BLACK'  FLIERS 


Still,  at  the  furnace  door  I  see  the  sturdy  fire- 
man, and  upon  the  open  face  of  the  steam-gauge 
read  the  record  of  his  work,  —  the  net  result  in 
pounds  of  steam.  Without  his  brain  and  brawn 
and  unerring  swing  of  his  scoop  we  should  not 
be  able  to  make  time.  He  plays  his  part,  and 
is  a  part  of  the  business,  just  as  the  grim  stoker 
in  the  bowels  of  the  battleship  helps  the  admiral 
to  overhaul  and  sink  the  enemy.  The  General 
Manager  in  his  office  directs  the  movements  of 
the  whole  fleet,  but  the  man  in  the  cab  is  "  fight- 
ing the  ship."  He  is  at  once  the  captain  and  the 
gunner,  and  we  all  know  the  responsibility  and 
the  importance  "of  the  man  behind  the  gun." 

Now  we  are  rolling  again,  rolling  up  through 
the  dawn  of  the  morning,  and  the  roll  of  the 
engine  rings  the  bell. 

Away  out  there  in  the  dawn  lays  a  long  gray 
line  of  fog,  marking  the  trail  of  the  Missouri. 
With  a  shrill,  triumphant  cry  the  big  machine 
relaxes,  slows  down,  and  stops  and  stands  quite 
still.  Only  the  air-pump  breathing  softly,  and 
the  flutter  of  steam  from  the  dome,  and  the 
burr  of  the  injector  cooUng  off  the  boiler  show 
that  she  lives.     I  feel  like  pulling  the  pin  and 


''i  \ 


.  «  W  «»"  »f  <,»•#•■.■  ♦  <rM'»'»'» 


THE  BLACK  FLIERS 


M3 


letting  her  go  leisurely  down  and  cool  her  feet 
in  the  "  Big  Water." 


<' 


In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon   the   Union 
Pacific   fast   mail,  east  bound,  came  over   the 
long  bridge  and  stood  her  cars,  gray  -.vith  the 
dust  of  the  "  deserts  "  of  Utah,  Wyoming,  and 
Nebraska,  beside  our  empty  train.     Deftly  now, 
and  almost  as  quickly  as  a  shellman  shifts  the  pea 
under  the  half-hull  of  the  walnut,  the  east-bound 
mail  is  transferred  to  our  empty  train,  and  at 
three  fifty-five  we  begin  the  long  race  from  the 
river  back  to  Chicago.     The  time  east  bound 
is  thirty  minutes    faster   than    scheduled   going 
west.     For  hours  we  put  the  towns  behind  us 
just  as  it  had  been  arranged  by  the  time-card. 
In  addition  to  the      <^ular  train  now  we    have 
the   General  Manager  s  private  car,  which  had 
gone  west   the   day   before       deadhead."      If 
the  engineer  can  make  time  with  the  extra  car 
behind,  it   will  give   the  management  and   tiie 
men  additional   confidence.     Hour   nfter  hour 
General  Manager  Frown,  the  General  Superin- 
tendent,  the   master-mechanic,  and   the   \\  riter 
sat  watching  the  finger  on  the  speed-    v.order. 


i^a 


>#i^'><- 


.•%J.j.r-«t!.-"«<j- 


'  ..f.  »4k.**«>k«*<«^ 


144 


THE  BLACK  FLIERS 


It  is  very  interesting  to  see  the  pointer  go  up 
and  up  and  up,  then  back  again,  only  to  re- 
turn and  try  to  reach  a  still  higher  point  on 
the  next  level  stretch  of  road.  These  fast 
trains  do  not  cross  the  continent  ignoring  small 
towns.  At  almost  every  county-seat  we  stop, 
pick  up  and  discharge  mail  matter,  so  that 
all  the  people  get  the  benefit  of  the  ser- 
vice, and  not  the  great  cities  alone-  These 
stops,  with  the  necessary  stops  for  water  and 
for  changing  and  oiling  engines,  take  up  a  great 
amount  of  time,  so  that  the  pointer  on  the 
speed -recorder  has  to  play  constantly  about  the 
mark  that  indicates  a  mile  a  minute.  At  mid- 
night, east  of  Galesburg,  when  the  indicator 
showed  eighty  miles  an  hour,  we  wrote  notes 
to  each  other,  the  General  Manager  and  I,  to 
show  that  we  could  write  at  that  rate  of  speed. 
They  were  not  beautiful  specimens  of  hand- 
writing, but  probably  as  good  as  either  of  us 
could  do  at  our  desks.  At  nine  minutes  past  two 
in  the  morning,  wlien  all  the  good  people  of  the 
great  city  were  asleep,  we  slipped  into  Chicago, 
six  minutes  ahead  of  time,  having  made  the  round 
trip  of  a  thousand  interesting  miles. 


^-^•::L:-3CXkiaasm,-^.'i.mXi'vicm%'iJt^  •»»*  ••  .>^. 


*6e  iFigtiting  Manager 


!•! 


( 


lO 


ii>iS);(»;«i*wwwri*.<H)it.."f>«»<iWi  .MOK^Ji^i 


THE  FIGHTING  MANAGER 


WE  had  been  discussing  the  late  war  and 
the  heroes  of  the  hour.  «  The  most 
heroic  man  I  ever  knew  was  Stone,"  said  the 
General  Manager,  placing  one  foot  upon  the 
box  that  covered  the  machinery  of  the  speed- 
recorder  at  the  rear  of  his  private  car. 

"Stone  of  the  Q  strike?" 

"  Yes,  Henry  B.  Stone.  Ask  Brown  of  the 
Burlington,  Ripley  and  Morton  of  the  Santa  Fe'. 
Robert  Lincoln,  and  dozens  of  others  who  fought 
under  him  in  the  great  strike  of  7.888,  or  who 
knew  him  intimately  after  he  had  left  the  road, 
and  who  still  mourn  his  tragic  death,  and  they 
will  say,  every  one  of  them,  that  they  are  braver 
and  better  men  because  of  their  acquaintance 
with  him  and  his  influence  upon  their  lives. 
Stone  could  not  so  much  as  think  crooked. 
He  had,  perhaps,  an  exaggerated  idea  of  honor 


' 


► 


148 


r/fK   FIGHTING  MANAGER 


and  loyalty  and  of  his  duty  to  the  company  that 
employed  him.  During  the  freight-handlers' 
strike  his  litde  boy  fell  ill.  All  day  this  faithful 
manager  remained  in  his  office,  and  then  sat  all 
night  at  the  bedside  of  his  dying  boy.  One 
morning  his  chief  clerk,  VVyllie,  saw  him  stand- 
ing on  the  platform  of  the  freight  sheds,  sur- 
rounded by  sullen  strikers,  smiling  and  talking 
with  the  General  Superintendent.  The  secre- 
tary was  pleased,  for  he  guessed  that  the  boy 
must  be  better.  But  when,  after  receiving  some 
instructions  about  matters  of  business,  he  ven- 
tured to  ask,  Mr.  Stone's  answer  was :  *  Oh, 
the  boy 's  dead.  Yes,  he  died  last  night,  just 
after  I  got  home.' 

"  The  secretary  tried  to  stammer  some  word 
of  condolence,  but  the  General  Manager  waved 
him  aside,  swallowing  hard.  'Yes,  Wyllie,'  he 
said ;  'just  so.  I  say,  Wyllie,  if  any  one  calls 
at  the  office,  just  say  that  the  boy  is  dead,  that 
the  end  was  painless,  and  that  —  that 's  all, 
Wyllie,'  he  jerked.  '  I  sha'n't  be  at  the  office 
to-day.' 

"  The  chief  clerk  thought,  of  course,  that  he 
would  go  home,  but  he  did  not.     He  remained 


^Vl!^l !  >'"»'iV-'^.  >nt?Mt  wiw<wii<w>B»wii«i»iiwii»»^^  '***^. 


THE  FIGHTING  AfAiVAGER 


149 


all  day  long  at  the  freight  sheds,  fighting  burly 
freight  wrestlers  and  doing  his  best  to  take  care 
of  the  property  and  the  business  of  the  com- 
pany. When  night  came,  he  went  home,  and 
he  sat  and  watched  and  wept  by  the  side  of  the 
small  coffin.  —  But  that  is  not  the  story  I 
started  to  tell.  It  was  at  East  St.  Louis,  at  the 
time  of  the  Martin  Irons  riots,  that  he  showed 
the  greatest  heroism  I  have  ever  seen  displayed. 
Every  day  for  nearly  two  weeks  the  mob  had 
marched  through  the  freight  yards,  clubbing 
every  one  who  seemed  not  to  sympathize  with 
them,  and  terrorizing  those  who  wanted  to 
work.  Finally  Mr.  Stone,  who  was  then  Gen- 
eral Manager  of  the  Burlington,  came  down  to 
St.  Louis  to  try  to  start  the  wheels  of  com- 
merce that  had  been  stopped  by  the  strikers. 
Not  a  pound  of  freight  had  left  St.  Louis  or 
East  St.  Louis  for  ten  days.  Mr.  Stone  sent 
word  to  the  shippers  to  send  over  their  teams, 
and  the  company  would  undertake  to  protect 
them  and  the  men.  • 

"  About  ten  o'clock  a  boat-load  of  transfer 
teams  left  the  Missouri  shore,  and  steamed 
across  to  the  freight  yards  of  the  Q  and  the 


1^ 


ISO 


THE  FIGHTING  MANAGER 


Alton.  The  moment  the  mob  caught  sight  of 
the  boat,  they  raised  the  war-whooT'  and  bore 
down  upon  the  shore.  As  they  approached  the 
landing  and  began  to  stone  the  boat,  McChesney, 
a  deputy  sheriff,  Mr.  Stone,  and  his  superin- 
tendent, Mr.  Brown  (now  General  Manager  of 
the  Burlington),  eacli  grabbed  a  rioter,  and  I 
followed  the  good  example.  And  we  each  held 
a  six-shooter  to  our  prisoner's  ear.  Stone  seemed 
to  have  singled  out  the  biggest  and  toughest 
looking  man  in  the  mob.  The  fellow  showed 
fight,  and  I  saw  Stone's  face  go  pale,  saw  his 
hand  grip  the  self-acting  revolver  until  the  ham- 
mer raised  from  the  cartridge.  My  man  stood 
quiet,  —  much  quieter  than  I  was,  for  I  was 
watching  the  hammer  of  Stone's  revolver  and 
the  little  space  that  was  narrowing  between  that 
rough  and  eternity. 

"The  mob,  seeing  the  four  men  held  with 
revolvers  to  their  heads,  turned  and  swept  back 
up  the  bank,  bent  on  rescuing  the  prisoners. 
There  were  at  least  four  hundred  men  to  do  the 
rescuing,  and  I  confess  that  I  saw  nothing  for 
us  but  a  brief  fight  and  death.  Holding  his 
man  at  arm's  length,  Stone  levelled  his  revolver 


fU 


«i».  5 


THE  FIGHT  INC,  MANAGER 


151 


at  the  mob,  and  called  upon  them  to  stand  back, 
at  the  same  time  displaying  the  big  badge  that 
proclaimed  him  an  officer  of  the  law.  But  the 
badge  had  the  same  effect  upon  them  that  a  red 
flag  would  have  on  a  barn-lot  full  of  bulls.  With 
a  horrible,  blood-chilling  yell,  tiiey  came  on. 
Again  I  saw  Stone's  hand  grip  the  pistol-stock, 
and  saw  the  hammer  draw  back  like  a  deadly 
serpent  about  to  strike.  Just  at  that  moment 
we  heard  a  voice  close  behind  us  cry,  *  Lie 
down,  Stone  !  Drop  to  the  ground  ! '  It  was 
the  voice  of  the  Burlington's  superintendent  of 
bridges.  We  all  released  our  prisoners,  and  fell 
upon  our  knees,  and  instantly  the  bridgeman 
and  twenty-nine  other  men  pointed  thirty  glis- 
tening rifles  over  our  heads  and  at  the  mob. 
The  effect  was  wonderful.  Those  savages  fell 
back,  tumbling  over  one  another  and  rolling 
almost  down  to  the  water's  edge. 

"  After  that  we  held  the  field  for  two  hours. 
About  noon,  Mr.  Stone  said  that  the  mob  had 
become  altogether  too  quiet ;  they  were  plotting 
mischief.  He  sent  Superintendent  Brown  down 
the  river  with  instructions  to  get  into  a  telegraph 
office  near  the  east  end  of  the  bridge  and  report 


t 


W 


A 


N 


152 


THE   FIGHTING  MANAGER 


'/ 


' 


the  situation.  I  stood  under  the  bridge,  and 
saw  Brown  walk  past  and  out  into  a  little  open 
space.  Here  he  stopped  to  watch  the  man- 
oeuvres of  a  mob  who  were  rapidly  forming  near 
the  Louisville  and  Nashville  yards.  At  the  same 
time  a  number  of  deputy  sheriffs  were  forming 
to  hold  them  back.  A  little  way  beyond  Brown, 
a  detective  and  a  Burlington  yard-master  were 
also  watching  them.  Suddenly,  from  the  ranks 
of  the  rioters,  a  pistol  was  fired.  Instantly  I 
saw  the  rifles  of  the  guard  go  up,  and  to  my 
amazement  and  the  horror  of  the  mob,  the  dep- 
uties began  to  pump  lead  into  the  desperate 
strikers  and  their  still  more  desperate  followers. 
I  saw  men  drop ;  saw  others  throw  up  their 
hands,  stagger,  and  fall.  At  the  front  of  the 
rioters,  I  had  seen  a  wild  creature  in  the  garb  of 
a  woman,  waving  a  long  stocking  with  a  stone 
in  the  toe,  her  loosened  hair  flying,  while  she 
shouted  to  the  men  to  come  on.  Now  I  saw 
her  put  up  her  hands,  stiffen,  and  pitch  forward. 
It  was  horrible.  The  mob  shrank  back  at  first, 
and  then  charged  furiously,  —  hundreds,  thou- 
sands of  men,  armed  with  guns,  clubs,  iron  bars, 
axes,  pitchforks,  and  stones.    I  was  so  fascinated 


W 


THE  FrCffTrXG  MAX  ACER 


153 


that  I  could  not  stir,  though  they  were  advanc- 
ing steadily  in  my  direction.  Presently  the 
detective  and  the  yard-master  came  running 
toward  the  bridge.  As  they  passed  Superin- 
tendent Brown,  they  yelled  to  him  to  fly  for 
his  life.  His  first  impulse  was  to  stand  his 
ground  and  fight,  but  as  the  howling  mob  ad- 
vanced he  saw  the  folly  of  such  a  course, 
and,  turning,  followed  the  yard-master  and 
the  detective.  As  soon  as  the  three  fugi- 
tives had  passed,  I  made  the  number  up  to 
four. 

"A  perfect  shower  of  bullets  followed  us.  I 
saw  them  skipping  along  the  pavement,  chipping 
pieces  from  posts  in  front  of  wooden  storehouses, 
and  heard  them  spit  and  spatter  in  the  muddy 
road.  The  firing  line  somehow  seemed  to  lie 
parallel  to  the  very  street  along  which  we  were 
taking  our  flight.  I  saw  a  man  on  a  delivery 
wagon  pull  a  revolver  and  fire  at  Brown.  A 
man  bareheaded  and  in  shirt-sleeves  sat  in  fronl 
of  his  cottage,  quietly  reading  his  morning  paper. 
I  had  been  expecting  to  drop  dead  at  any  mo- 
ment, and  the  sight  of  this  happy  man,  silting 
under  his  vine,  reading  his  paper,  filled  me  with 


V     i 


warn 


^^nnmtfm^r-rngffm 


154 


T/fE  FIGHTING  MANAGER 


\\'. 


I 


M 


a  deep  longing  to  live,  to  be  absolutely  out  of 
range  and  contented  once  more.  I  shall  never 
forget  ho\v  peaceful  that  little  home  looked  to 
me  as  I  raced  up  to  it  in  a  heavy  shower  of  lead 
and  no  umbrella.  Suddenly  I  detevmined  to 
seek  asylum  there ;  to  throw  myself  upon  the 
neck  and  mercy  of  that  blessed  man.  But  as  T 
drew  near,  he  put  down  his  paper  and  ran  into 
the  house.  I  guessed  he  had  gone  to  get  out 
of  the  draught.  But  as  I  dashed  by,  he  came 
out  again,  levelled  a  pistol  at  my  head,  and  al- 
most burst  the  drum  of  my  ear,  so  close  did  he 
fire.  Now  1  began  to  understand.  The  people 
were  against  us.  Men  would  stop  work  to  take 
a  shot  at  us  as  we  raced  along. 

"The  yard-master  had  drawn  up  to  second 
place,  near  the  superintendent.  The  detective, 
by  this  time,  began  to  fag.  Suddenly  I  saw  him 
pitch  forward.  I  knew  it  would  be  folly  for  me 
to  stop,  but  a  little  farther  along,  I  knew,  there 
was  a  posse  of  deputy  sheriffs ;  and  leaping  in 
among  the  cars,  I  got  witiiin  heiu'ing,  and 
shouted  to  them  to  go  back  and  rescue  the 
detective.  In  a  few  moir.ents  they  had  stayed 
the  advance  of  the  mob  and  brought  the  detec- 


THE  FIGHTING  MANAGER 


155 


tive  into  the  yards,  with  a  nasty,  though  not 
fatal,  wound  in  his  neck. 

"  If  the  rioters  had  been  dangerous  before, 
they   were   desperate   now.     A  sheriffs  badge 
was   their   target.      Everybody   and  everything 
that  stood  for  law  and  order  was  looked  upon 
as  the  enemy  of   anarchy,  and  treated   accord- 
ingly.    In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  General 
Manager  Harrahan,  of  the  Louisville  and  Nash- 
ville (now  Vice-President  of  the  Illinois  Central), 
telephoned  to  Mr.  Stone  that  a  lot  of  his  em- 
ployees, many  of  them  women,  were  imprisoned 
in  the  L.  and  N.  freight  depot.     The  building 
was   surrounded  by  a  mob  who  threatened  to 
fire  the  place,  and  stood  ready  to  kill  the  help- 
less employees  as  soon  as  they  put  their  heads 
outside  the  building.     He  begged  Stone  to  go 
to  the  relief  of  his  people,  and  to  hold  the  mob 
back  if  possible  until  he  couid  arrive  upon  the 
scene  with  a  force  to  aid  in  the  rescue.     When 
Mr.  Stone  had  read  the  message,  he  called  for 
ten   men   to   go   with   him.      About   fifty  men 
stepped  out,  and  among  the  first  I  saw  Brown, 
the  Superintendent  of  the  Q.     If  he  knew  how 
to  reueat,  he  knew  also  how  to  fight.    The  Gen- 


H 


'  \\ 


11 


!    -I 


156 


THE  FIGHTING  MANAGER 


ii 


v'l 


eral  Manager,  however,  requested  him  to  remain 
to  defend  the  Burhngton,  and  with  a  dozen  men 
marched  off  to  the  Nashville  yards. 

"  As  the  little  company  came  in  sight,  the 
rioters  set  up  a  wild  cheer,  for  they  were  out 
for  blood  now.  Stone  gave  no  heed  to  their 
threats  and  jeers,  but  boldly  marched  on  to 
the  edge  of  the  ring  of  rioters  that  begirt  the 
freight-house.  As  he  approached,  he  drew  his 
revolver,  and  his  followers  did  likewise.  The 
men  who  had  threatened  Iiiiii,  however,  ap- 
peared not  to  notice  the  weapons,  but  stared 
at  the  calm  face  and  flashing  eyes  of  the  leader. 
On  they  marched  in  the  form  of  a  V,  Stone  at 
the  point.  Now  the  strikers  began  to  give  way 
as  the  cold  point  of  the  leader's  pistol  came 
close  to  their  heads.  Steadily,  right  through 
the  mob,  the  little  regiment  made  its  way,  and 
not  a  hand  was  raised  against  it.  When  it 
reached  the  building,  the  doors  were  thrown 
open,  and  the  prisoners  escorted  away. 

"  In  the  meantime  we  had  asked  the  Gover- 
nor to  send  the  Slate  troops  to  suppress  the 
rioters.  Early  in  the  evening  they  began  to 
arrive  by  special  trains  over  the  various  roads. 


;  I 


THE  FIGHTING  MANAGER 


157 


The  Governor  had  asked   Mr.  Stone  to  aid  in 
the   distribution   of  the  troops,  which   he  did, 
assisted   by  the  other   railway  officials.     About 
nine  o'clock  we  began  to  smell  pine  burning. 
At  nine-thirty  the  glare  of  fire  lit  up  the  bot- 
toms almost  to  the  bluffs  at  Collinsville.     In  the 
yards  of  the   Cairo  Short   Line,  two   hundred 
freight  cars  and  forty  coaches  were  burning  at 
one   time.     The   VandaHa,   the   Louisville   and 
Nashville,  everything  south  of  the  bridge  seemed 
to  be   ablaze.     Whistles  were  screaming,    bells 
were  ringing,  men  were  shouting,  women  crying, 
and  above  it  all  we  could  hear  the  wild  shouts 
of  the  lawless  thousands  cheering  while  the  hun- 
gry flames  licked  the  paint  from  Pullman  cars 
and  consumed  the  homes  of  hundreds  of  inno- 
cent people  who  had  no  part   in  the   quarrel 
and  who  could  gain  nothing  by  the  riots  beyond 
a  little   innocent   rifle  practice   as   the   deputy 
sheriffs  passed  their  quiet  homes.     Now  a  new 
sound  came  to  us  from  the  Missouri  side,  —  the 
sound  of  rough-shod  horses  galloping  over  the 
big  bridge.     It  was  the  fire  brigade  coming  to 
the  rescue.     But  as  fast  as  they  made  connec- 
tion the  mob  rushed  in  with  knives  and  axes, 


\   I 


V-     fl 


'iTrn ir   '  -  \\v%tmi»tmAm 


hi''. 


158 


T//E  FIGHTING  MANAGER 


and  slit  or  hacked  the  hose  to  pieces.  For 
nearly  an  hour  the  firemen  worked  like  beavers, 
but  to  no  purpose.  Once  in  a  while  a  stream 
of  water  would  shoot  into  the  flames  for  a 
moment,  then  slacken,  and  fail.  Finally  the 
Chief  said,  *  Let  the  town  go  !  If  the  State 
can't  protect  the  people  and  their  property, 
let  her  blaze ; '  and  with  that  he  reeled  up  his 
wounded  hose  and  jogged  back  to  Missouri. 

"Yes,"  concluded  the  General  Manager,  as 
we  slowed  down  for  orders  at  a  junc  ion  point, 
"  Henry  B.  Stone  was  a  hero." 


.  i 


t^t  pa00tng  of  ^cjflUor 


If 


■  •  •  ■» , . 


•  'r-Ji^kife.fSTsii 


is 


THE  PASSING  OF  MclVOR. 


TtyTANY  of  my  readers  will  remember 
-»-▼-■.  Mclvor,  who  as  he  oiled  the  notorious 
107  said  to  the  paymaster,  whose  train  he  was 
to  take  out,  "  It 's  ail  poppycock  —  there  's  no 
such  thing  as  an  unlucky  engine.  This  Friday 
talk  is  child's  talk."  And  then,  glancing  up  at 
the  new  moon,  he  made  a  wish.  Later,  when 
he  hung  the  reprobate's  boiler  on  a  big  rock  in 
the  black  canon,  he  came  from  the  cab  more 
than  ever  of  the  opinion  that  he  was  never  to 
be  killed  on  an  engine.  When  he  took  desper- 
ate chances,  it  was  not  to  save  himself,  '^.it  other 
people  and  his  engine. 

Mclvor  was  a  Virginian.  Before  the  beard 
broke  through  his  boyish  face,  he  entered  the 
army.  He  went  in  at  one  end  of  the  war  and 
came  out  nt  the  other  end,  with  whiskers  and 
scars,  but  still  proud  of  Virginia. 

II 


:  j; 


I  i- 


I    f 


W  if 


1^ 


Hi 


( 


'X 


It 

!   if 

* 
^1 


!.| 


I  !! 


i     ) 


162 


■J7/E  PASSING  OF  MciyOR 


After  the  war,  young  Mclvor  became  a 
locomotive  engineer  on  one  of  the  Southern 
railways.  One  day  a  lot  of  negroes,  feeling 
their  freedom,  said  they  would  ride  on  the 
engine,  and  Mclvor  was  unable  to  put  them  off. 
Finally  one  of  them,  being  especially  frisky,  said 
he  would  run  the  engine,  and  Mclvor  said  he 
would  not.  After  that  there  was  confusion  in 
the  cab,  and  when  it  was  all  over,  the  engineer 
stood  looking  at  a  smokmg  six-shooter,  letting 
the  engine  jog  along  to  the  end  of  the  run. 
Along  the  track  three  negroes  lay  dead  or  dying, 
and  a  half  dozen  other  negroes,  some  limping 
and  all  scared,  were  humping  it  across  a  meadow 
toward  the  wood.  The  engineer's  left  hand  had 
been  cooked  while  he  was  struggling  to  keep 
out  of  the  fire-box,  for  the  negroes  had  playfully 
attempted  to  poke  him  through  the  furnace  door. 
I  have  heard  it  hinted  that  Mclvor  succeeded 
in  locating  four  more  of  his  torturers,  making 
seven  altogether ;  and  then  he  went  North. 

I  have  always  respected  Mclvor, 

Taking  account  of  the  war,  the  negroes,  and 
his   after  experience  on  a  new  railroad  in   the 


i-ljVJ 


.*•?■  '^ff**"/* *'<>*'"''"  *  'i!''"'*^' '".  A"' .'■*-■  ^'j*'  •*■•»«»■;■■**  -•'^^■^  ^^'yyjy  r:-,  • 


:  :\V..  J../  \-  .  ■ 


'f:<;'ixts-»*( 


THE  PASSING  OF  McIVOR 


163 


then  new  West,  Mclvor  had  many  narrow 
escapes.  Like  most  men  who  have  lived  long 
at  the  front  of  an  express  train,  he  was  quick 
to  act  in  the  face  of  danger.  One  night,  when 
the  road  was  new  and  unfenced,  he  was  fall- 
ing along  the  Tomeche,  forty  minutes  late,  with 
No.  7  full  of  hungry  people  anxious  to  reach  La 
Veta  Hotel  at  Gunnison,  famous  as  an  eating- 
station  in  the  days  when  the  main  line  lay  over 
Marshall  Pass.  The  first  snow  was  falling  in 
the  hills,  and  a  band  of  half-wild  horses  were 
hurrying  down  in  the  autumn  twilight  to  a  lonely 
ranch  at  the  mouth  of  the  canon.  Mclvor  saw 
them  coming  towards  him  in  a.  deep  cut.  He 
was  on  a  down  grade,  and  he  knew  it  would 
be  impossible  to  stop.  As  he  reached  for  the 
whistle  he  pulled  the  throttle  wide  open,  for  to 
slow  down  at  such  a  time  was  to  increase  the 
danger.  Instinctively  he  shouted  to  the  fire- 
man, who  was  down  by  the  furnace  door,  to 
"  look  out ;  "  and  taking  alarm  from  the  cry  of 
the  engine  and  Mclvor's  voice,  the  fireman  went 
up  against  the  sloping  side  of  the  dirt  cut,  and 
rolled  unconscious,  but  almost  unhurt,  along  with 
the  wind  of  the  train.     The  little  rockaway  en- 


I 


I 


1 1 


'fliVivtt*^ 


I  ! 

i 


h 


* 


n 


h 


Y 


f 

4:/     . 

f^ 

H 

i 

li; 

"l 

1 

164 


THE  PASS/.VG   OF  McIl^OR 


gine  tumbled  into  the  herd  at  a  frightful  rate. 
Mclvor  said  he  could  feel  the  horses  slamming 
up  against  his  front  end.  They  crashed  over  the 
pilot,  tearing  away  the  signal  lamp,  the  head- 
light, and  the  stack.  As  soon  as  it  was  over, 
Mclvor  stopped,  bacljied  up,  and  found  his 
fireman. 

"You  told  me  to  jump,"  the  fireman 
stammered. 

"  I  did  nothin'  of  the  sort,"  said  Mclvor ; 
"  I  merely  said,  *  look  out.'  " 

When  the  company  settled  wuh  the  ranch- 
man for  that  night's  work,  they  paid  him  for 
thirteen  horses.  Mclvor  had  made  a  record 
that  has  never  yet  been  broken  ;  but  a  man  with 
less  "  sand  "  might  have  made  it  thirteen  human 
beings. 


A  few  years  ago  a  young  man  employed  as 
a  watchman  at  one  of  the  division  stations  on 
that  same  railway,  in  a  fit  of  anger,  struck  a 
conductor  with  a  piece  of  plank,  and  killed  him. 
The  conductor  was  very  popular  in  the  town. 
His  friends,  assembling  quickly,  called  it  mur- 
der,   and  went  at  once  to  the  jail  where  the 


THE   PASSING  OF  I^cIVOR 


^65 


young  man  had  been  locked  up  and  murdered 
the  murderer. 

When  it  was  all  over  and  the  men  saw  what 
had  been  done,  they  were  alarmed.  The  good 
people  of  the  town  were  shocked,  and  the  whole 
community  was  sorely  grieved  over  the  tragic 
death  of  two  respected  citizens.  Naturally,  the 
grand  jury  inquired  into  the  matter,  and  Mclvor 
was  one  of  the  first  men  arrested.  Two  or  three 
witnesses  swore  positively  that  they  had  heard 
Mclvor's  Virginia  voice  shouting  at  the  head  of 
the  mob.  Other  men,  equally  reputable,  offered 
to  swear  that  Mclvor  was  elsewhere  at  the  mo- 
ment of  the  hanging ;  but  McJvor  refused  to  let 
them  testify  in  his  behalf. 

When,  some  time  later,  Mclvor  was  brought 
from  the  jail  to  be  tried,  he  said  he  was  not 
guilty.     He  had  a  friend  high  in  the  Masonic 
order,  as  he  was  himself,  and  this  man   came 
and  testified  that  Mclvor  was  not  in  the  mob, 
and  proved  it  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt,  and 
Mclvor  went  free.     Then  some  people  accused 
him  of  "playing  horse"  with  the    State;   but- 
that  was  not  true.     Mclvor  had  gone  to  jail  to 
give  another  man,  who  had  the  same  Southern 


i  ^1 

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<        i' 


1 66 


THE  PASSING  OF  MclVOR 


accent,  time  to  get  out  of  the  country,  and  he 
got  out. 

Mclvor  was  an  interesting  combination  of 
strength  and  weakness.  As  shown  here,  he  was 
loyal  to  a  friend  and  would  suffer  for  him ;  but 
I  don't  believe  he  ever  wholly  forgave  an  enemy. 
On  his  engine  he  would  face  death  with  a  smile. 
On  the  ground  he  was  as  weak  and  erring  as  a 
village  belle  who  has  inherited  her  mother's 
beauty  and  a  deep  longing  for  the  stage.  He 
railroaded  at  ?11  times  and  in  all  places,  and  used 
his  engine  or  the  time-card  to  illustrate  what  he 
had  to  say.  Once  his  fireman  fell  in  love  with 
an  interesting  widow  who  kept  a  boarding-house, 
and  he  asked  Mclvor's  consent. 

"  Well,"  said  the  engineer,  thoughtfully, 
"  she 's  sho*  onto  heh  job ;  but  it  seems  to 
me,  Johnny,  that  it  wud  be  bettah  to  get  one 
just  out  o'  the  shop,  an'  break  heh  in  to  suit 
you.  In  that  case,  ye  'd  know  all  heh  weak 
points." 

The  other  day  I  had  a  letter  from  the  little 
town  where,  for  the  past  fifteen  years,  Mclvor 


'?..-j.  I 


THE   PASSING  OF  MclVOR 


167 


had  stabled  his  iron  horse.  It  was  written  by 
one  of  the  foremen  in  the  sliops,  I  fancy,  and  was 
meant  only  to  carry  the  news  of  the  engineer's 
death  and  to  say  that  his  brother,  who  had  come 
up  from  the  South  to  settle  the  dead  man's  affairs, 
had  expressed  the  wish  that  some  acknowledg- 
ment might  be  made  of  the  receipt  of  a  story 
1  had  sent  before  I  learned  of  Mclvor's  death. 
The  brother,  as  he  read  the  story,  had  smiled 
through  his  tears,  the  lett^i  i  aid,  for  he  had  often 
heard  Mclvor  himself  tell  of  his  experience  with 
the  gander  in  the  graveyard.  The  two  men  had 
parted  many  years  ago,  and  now  the  brother, 
coming  to  the  little  town  where  Mclvor  had 
lived,  found  four  or  five  thousand  dollars,  some 
real  estate,  a  few  shares  of  mining  stock  —  and 
a  grave.  The  steady  hand  that  had  hekl  in  it 
hundreds  of  lives  almost  every  day  for  the  past 
twelve  years  is  resting  there.  Perhaps  of  the 
men  and  women  who  read  this  recital  not  a  few 
have  at  some  time  slept  down  the  steep  moun- 
tain and  through  the  dark  cafion  while  Mclvor 
kept  watch  in  the  engine  cab.  Mclvor  is  dead  ; 
and,  as  he  always  said  it  would  be,  he  died  in 
bed,  "with  his  boots  off." 


^ 


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THE  PASSING  OF  McIl^OR 


''Ma 


I  I?, 


I  have  no  right  to  print  the  foreman's  letter, 
but  1  can  give  the  story  in  my  own  way,  which, 
however,  can  never  impress  you  as  this  letter 
has  impressed  me  : 

Mclvor  had  been  ill  for  three  or  four  years 
—  some  trouble  with  the  spine,  a  thing  com- 
mon enough  among  enginemen.  He  would  lay 
off  for  a  while,  go  up  and  down  the  country, 
experimenting  with  the  many  hot  springs  of  the 
West  and  fooling  with  widely  advertised  Chinese 
doctors  —  who  are  usually  brought  in  from  the 
nearest  laundry,  hung  about  with  baggage  checks, 
and  propped  up  on  a  sort  of  tlu-one  under  i\  big 
umbrella.  Finally,  a  few  months  ago,  his  en- 
gine went  into  the  "  back  shops  "  to  be  rebuilt, 
and  Mclvor's  friends  persuaded  him  to  go  to 
the  hospital,  get  well,  and  be  ready  for  her  when 
she  should  come  out.  This  hospital  is  main- 
tained by  the  employees  and  the  company,  and 
Mclvor,  who  had  been  one  of  the  directors, 
knew  that  it  was  not  a  bad  place —  much  better, 
in  fact,  than  the  rtvcrage  hotel ;  and  so,  after 
fighting  dow.i  a  natural  dread  of  such  institu- 
tions, he  finally  went  to  live  at  the  hospital. 
For  a  while  he  was  reasonably  well  contented, 


? 


THE   PASSING  OF  McIVOR 


169 


I 


but  his  health  did  not  improve ;  indeed,  he 
seemed  to  grow  worse  from  week  to  week. 

At  first  he  kept  quiet  —  racing,  as  it  were, 
with  his  engine,  to  see  which  would  get  out  first. 
Tiien,  when  the  newly  turned  wheels  had  been 
replaced  beneath  the  boiler,  the  old  engineer 
used  to  cross  the  leetering  foot-bridge  that  hung 
over  the  Arkansas  and  sit  for  hours  watching 
the  workmen  putting  the  engine  in  shape  for  the 
road.  "  Towards  the  last,"  writes  his  friend,  the 
foreman,  "  the  doctor  used  to  try  to  keep  him 
away,  for  he  would  not  go  back  to  the  hospital  at 
noon  to  eat.  All  day,  from  the  first  to  the  last 
whistle,  he  would  sit  by,  getting  up  now  and 
then  to  help  adjust  the  different  parts  of  the 
machine." 

Every  new  device  in  the  store  Mclvor  would 
have.  The  old-fashioned  oil-cups  had  to  be 
removed  and  glass  ones  put  on  instead.  The 
latest  patent  lubricators  and  a  spring  seat  in  the 
cab  he  asked  for,  and  the  master-mechanic, 
knowing  that  these  things  were  not  for  Mclvor, 
said,  "All  right  —  give  it  to  him,"  and  then 
went  into  his  office  to  think.  Day  by  day,  as 
the  engine  assumed  her  normal  shape,  growing 


n: 


• 


•t 


\ 


r 


If 


170 


THE  PASSING  OF  McIVOR 


%    I 


bright  and  beautiful  under  the  painters  touch, 
the  engineer  wasted  away. 

In  the  course  of  time  he  began  to  realize  this 
fact,  for  now  he  urged  them  to  get  her  out  as 
soon  as  possible,  so  that  he  might  break  her  in 
for  tiie  road.  By  the  time  the  last  touches  were 
being  put  on  the  new  engine,  it  was  necessary 
for  some  one  to  walk  over  the  swinging  bridge 
with  the  engineer  when  the  six  o'clock  whistle 
blew.  Finally  she  was  finished  and  fired  up, 
but  that  night  they  had  to  carry  Mclvor  over 
the  river  to  the  hospital,  and  the  next  day  he 
was  unable  to  leave  his  bed. 

Nobody  spoke  now  of  the  engine  to  him, 
and  he  never  si)okc  of  it  himself.  One  day,  a 
week  or  two  after  his  last  trip  over  the  bridge, 
the  master-mechanic  went  in  to  see  him.  Mc- 
lvor was  lying  apparently  asleep,  with  his  face 
to  the  wall.  Presently  a  whistle  sound<rd,  and, 
turning  quickly  on  his  back,  he  looked  steadily 
into  the  face  of  the  master-mechanic.  The 
master-merh?nic  knew  what  was  in  his  mind, 
and,  pitying  him,  waited  for  him  to  speak. 

"That's  the  Hund'ed-an'-sixty-eight,"  said 
Mclvor. 


THE   PASSIXG  OF  McIVOR 


171 


"  II  's  Blodget,"  said  the  master-mechanic, 
evasively,  "  coming  in  with  Mr.  Jeffrey's  special." 

"  It  makes  no  difference  who  's  handlin'  heh, 
or  what  she  's  haulin',  that 's  th'  Hund'ed-an'- 
sixty-eight,"  said  Mclvor,  and  he  turned  his  face 
once  more  to  the  wall. 

That  evening  some  friends  came  in  to  see 
him,  and  Mclvor  said  abruptly  :  "  Look  a-heah  ! 
When  I  leave  the  rail,  I  want  you-all  to  plant 
me  whuh  I  go  down,  an'  don't  let  my  people  go 
haulin'  me  about ;  I  'm  tia'd,  an'  I  want  a  rest." 

"  Say,"  he  called  as  his  friends  were  leaving, 
"  ast  Mistah  Jones's  padon  for  th'  way  I  spoke 
to  him  to-day.  Come  to  think,  I  guess  I  don't 
own  the  engine  anyway,  only  it  seems  they 
might  'a'  kep'  heh  whistle  closed  till  I  was  out  o' 
hea'in." 

But  that  was  the  last  time  the  whistle  came  to 
trouble  him,  for  before  the  Hundred-and-sixty- 
eight  came  in  on  her  next  trip  Mclvor  was  dead. 


f 


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A  SYMPATHY  STRIKE 


"  TJERE,  take  this  ash-hoe,"  said  the  fore- 

A  -■-  man,  "  and  the  moment  that  engine 
stops  at  the  coal  chute,  jump  in  just  forward  of 
the  main  drivers  and  hoe  the  ashes  out  of  the 
ash-pan." 

I  had  been  "railroading' about  forty-eight 
hours.  The  thought  of  crav.ling  in  under  one  of 
those  httle  mountain  engines  was  anything  but 
pleasant.  I  had  not  long  to  wait,  for  the  deep 
steamboat  whistle  of  the  88  was  even  then  filling 
the  valley  and  echoing  up  in  the  side  canons. 

"  No.  8,  Frank,"  said  the  foreman,  as  Wilson, 
the  engineer,  leaned  from  the  cab,  glan^.ing  up 
at  the  coal  bins,  and  the  little  engine  glided  up 
and  stopped  just  below  chute  No.  8. 

I  knew  that  I  must  go  under  that  hot,  steam- 
ing, screaming  engine  or  be  disgraced  in  the 
eyes  of  the  foreman,  and  in  the  presence  of  the 


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176 


A    SYMPATHY  STRIKE 


new  General  Manager,  whose  special  the  engine 
was  pulling.  I  glanced  at  the  engineer.  He 
was  watching  the  coal  heaver,  who  was  pulling 
the  chute  down.  I  glanced  at  the  foreman,  who 
was  bowing  and  saluting  the  various  officers  who 
were  coming  from  the  train  to  straighten  their 
legs  and  kick  the  bag  out  of  their  trousers. 
Taking  a  big  swallow  of  mountain  air,  I  dived 
below  the  main-rod,  but  at  that  moment  the 
throttle  flew  open,  the  wheels  slipped  and  made 
two  or  three  turns  at  an  express  gait,  though  the 
engine  did  not  move,  the  air  being  set  full  on 
the  two  cars.  The  sound  of  the  engine's  ex- 
haust brought  the  foreman  to  my  side.  "  Why 
the  devil  don't  you  get  under  and  clean  that 
pan  ?  "  he  yelled,  for  he  had  to  yell  to  be  heard 
above  the  roar  of  escaping  steam. 

I  made  no  answer,  but  looked  at  the  engineer 
until  I  caught  his  eye  and  then  let  myself  fall 
near  the  rail,  and  crawled  in  under  the  boiler. 
The  fireman,  by  working  a  lever  in  the  cab,  had 
already  opened  the  ash-pan,  and  now,  laying 
flat,  full  length  between  the  rails,  I  began  to  drag 
the  hot  cinders  out.  The  air  pump  was  pound- 
ing and  puffing  like  a  foot-ball  player,  the  ashes 


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A    SVMPA  THY  STRIKE 


177 


smoked  and  almost  choked  me,  while  the  heat 
from  the  fire-box  was  suffocating.  I  saw  at  a 
glance  that  the  red-hot  ash-pan  came  down  to 
within  four  inches  of  the  ties,  and  if  the  engine 
started  forward,  I  must  pass  under  it.  If  she 
backed  up,  the  pilot  would  roll  me  into  a  pulp. 
In  less  than  a  minute  the  smoke  from  the  ashes 
and  the  steam  from  the  air  pump  exhaust,  blow- 
ing in  under  the  boiler,  blinded  me.  To  be  sure, 
there  was  no  more  danger  now  than  there  had 
been  before,  for  it  was  sure  death  if  the  engine 
moved,  but  the  darkness  made  the  situation  ten 
times  more  terrible  than  it  had  been.  T  could 
hear  my  scared  heart  pounding  the  ties  upon 
which  I  lay.  I  thought  then  that  it  was  the 
smoke  and  gas,  but  1  know  now  that  it  was  my 
heart  that  was  choking  me,  so  violently  did  it 
pump  blood.  That  was  the  one  moment  in  my 
life  that  I  never  can  forget.     It  was  horrible. 

Presently,  when  I  had  been  there  perhaps  a 
hundred  seconds,  though  it  seemed  a  hundred 
years,  the  foreman  put  his  face  between  the 
spokes  of  the  main  driver  and  yelled  "  That  'II 
do,"  and  immediately  walked  back  to  the 
car. 

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178 


A    S I  'Ml  V;  TIIV  STR  IKE 


Now  the  agony  was  almost  over,  but  not  quite. 
1  had  still  to  crawl  out  between  the  drivers,  and 
fancied  I  could  feel  them  pressing  my  ribs.  The 
wind  blew  the  smoke  away  and  1  peei)ed  out 
to  see  if  any  one  stood  guard  over  me.  Over 
against  the  sand-house,  about  a  car  length  from 
the  cab,  I  saw  a  stout  man  standing,  watching 
me  intently.  As  1  put  my  hands  out  over  the 
rail,  the  stranger  put  a  hand  straight  out,  saying, 
as  he  did  so :  "  Don't  move,  Frank,  there  's  a 
man  under  the  engine." 

When,  after  all  those  years  of  agony  under 
the  engine,  I  stood  up,  I  found  my  knees  shak- 
ing. I  wanted  to  thank  the  gentlemen  who  had 
stood  watch  over  me,  but  I  •  could  not  walk  to 
where  he  stood,  and  so  leaned  against  a  flat  car 
that  stood  on  the  sand  track  and  rested  until 
the  train  pulled  out.  I  dare  say  the  gentleman 
would  have  been  surprised  if  I  had  spoken  to 
him,  and  the  foreman  (who  was  as  new  in  his 
place  as  I  was  in  mine)  would  have  been 
shocked;  but  I  knew  nothing  of  discipline,  nor 
of  the  invisible  "  range "  that  is  supposed  to 
rise  between  a  hostler's  helper  and  the  General 
Manager. 


\    \ 


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A    SVAfPATHV  STRIKE 


179 


An  hour  later,  when  the  six  o'clock  whistle 
blew,  I  washed  u])  and  went  iionie,  and  went 
supperless  to  bed,  with  a  roaring,  howling 
headache,  but  with  the  kindly,  sympathetic 
face  of  the  General  Manager  living  in  my 
dreams. 

After  that  1  saw  the  General  Manager  often. 
I  fired  and  handled  the  special  engine  on  our 
division,  and  at  the  end  of  three  short  years 
(they  seem  now  the  shortest  of  my  life),  I  held 
a  commission  as  locomotive  engineer  and  helped 
him  over  the  hill. 

While  still  in  the  service  of  the  company,  I 
was  sent  by  the  master-mechanic,  along  with 
a  number  of  other  emi)loyees  from  other  divi- 
sions, to  see  the  General  Manager  and  talk  over 
with  him  a  new  plan  for  the  management  of  the 
company's  hospitals.  I  found  him  just  as  he 
had  appeared  to  be  at  our  first  meeting,  —  kind, 
frank,  sympathetic,  and  wholly  unselfish.  Al- 
though I  had  been  elevated  but  a  few  notches, 
I  failed  to  find  any  very  considerable  mountain 
between  us,  and  yet  I  was  extremely  proud  of 
the  honor  of  his  acquaintance.  When  I  glanced 
about  the  magnificent  rooms  I  felt  out  of  place, 


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A    SYMPATHY  STRIKE 


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but  the  moment  my  eyes  rested  upon  that  kindly 
face,  I  was  perfectly  at  ease. 

In  later  years,  when  I  had  left  the  road,  the 
General  Manager  and  I  became  very  well  ac- 
quainted, and  were,  I  think  I  may  say  without 
appearing  to  boast,  of  mutual  assistance  to  each 
other.  I  know  that  he  helped  me  vastly,  and  I 
believe  that  through  my  intimate  acquaintance 
with  his  employees  I  helped  him  over  a  bad 
place  in  his  railroad  career.  I  believe  there  are 
managers,  though  perhaps  not  many,  who  would 
have  shown  me  the  door  upon  that  occasion, 
but  he  did  not.  He  heard  me  out,  and  when  I 
convinced  him  that  he  had  been  ill  advised,  he 
tore  up  a  decision  that  had  already  gone  to  the 
printer  —  in  fact,  it  was  the  printer's  proof  that 
he  destroyed  —  and  wrote  another,  not  so  very 
different,  but  it  avoided  a  strike. 

After  that  our  little  bark,  "  Friendship,"  glided 
smoothly  over  two  or  three  years,  and  then  we 
hit  a  rock. 

Swat  McQaade  was  a  tough  switchman. 
There  could  be  no  two  opinions  on  that  point, 
and  the  new  man,  who  had  come  back  with  him 
from  the  stormy  division  of  the  "  Q"  was  little 


r 


A   SYMPATHY  STRIKE 


l8l 


better,  but  they  were  what  yard-masters  call  "  fly 
switchmen."  Dead  tough  they  were,  but  fly, 
and  so  kept  a  job. 

Tough  as  he  was,  Swat  was  not  bad  to  look 
upon,  and  in  time  a  very  good,  honest  little 
woman  —  girl,  I  might  better  say  —  became  his 
wife,  and  they  abode  on  the  bank  in  a  little,  neat, 
unpainted  cot.  Swat's  chum,  the  stormy  switch- 
man, boarded  with  Swat  and  slept  in  lay-over 
cabooses,  and  Swa*  swatted  any  road  man  who 
objected  to  the  arrangement,  and  that  is  how 
they  came  to  call  him  Swat.  The  third  man  on 
Swat's  crew  was  a  nice  boy.  He  was  neat, 
clean  at  all  times,  good-looking,  and  very  intelli- 
gent. He  stood  out  in  the  night  yard-shift  like 
a  pure  diamond  in  the  bosom  of  a  brakeman's 
soiled  shirt.  Everybody  liked  Smith,  though 
Smith  was  not  his  name. 

That  winter  the  West  was  overrun  with  tramps, 
and  it  began  to  be  hinted  that  freight  cars  were 
being  robbed  at  Wideview,  and  the  company  set 
detectives  to  watching  the  place.  Of  course, 
the  detective  who  was  sent  out  began  to  look 
about  for  a  dog  with  a  bad  name,  and  in  less 
than  twenty-four  hours  had  Swat  McQuade  and 


I, 


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A    SYMPA  THY  STRIKE 


I 


the  "  Q  "  man  down  in  his  little  book  as  men 
who  might  know  something. 

One  night  a  box-car  was  seen  to  be  on  fire  in 
the  freight  yards.  A  yard  engine  was  coupled 
to  it;  it  was  fanned  down  to  the  water-tank, 
broken  open,  and  the  fire  was  quenched. 

The  car  was  loaded  with  silks.  A  vast  amount 
of  goods  had  been  scorched,  all  had  been 
flooded,  and  some  of  them  carried  off  during 
the  excitement. 

When  the  car  had  been  cooled  down  and 
thrown  in  on  the  "  rep.  track,"  Swat  chalked  on 
the  side  of  the  car,  in  big,  bold  letters,  "  Wat- 
ered Silk." 

A  few  days  later  Swat  and  the  stormy  switch- 
man were  arrested. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  young  Smith  was  dis- 
charged. 

Now,  nobody  would  believe  Smith  capable  of 
robbing  cars,  and  naturally  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  feeling.  I  read  of  it  and  grew  warm. 
It  looked  as  though  the  local  officials  were  doing 
a  little  "  example  "  business,  and  when  a  com- 
mittee of  employees  came  to  headquarters  ask- 
ing   Smith's    reinstatement;    and    went    back 


A    SVMPATHy  STRIKE 


'83 


assured  that  their  request  would  not  be  granted, 
I  went  down  to  see  my  friend  the  G.  M. 

I  told  him  that  I  had  worked  with  this  young 
man;  that  I  knew  him  better  than  the  local 
officials,  or  the  tin-horn  detectives,  could  possi- 
bly know  him.  Oh,  I  was  indignant.  I  charged 
the  local  officials  with  trying  to  cover  up  their 
own  carelessness  by  the  cowardly  dismissal  of 
innocent  employees,  and  ended  by  asking  —  al- 
most demanding  —  the  reinstatement  of  young 
Smith. 

"Say,"  said  the  General  Manager,  "you've 
been  imposed  upon." 
"  By  whom,  pray  ?  " 

"  Well,  whoever  sent  you  here  to  make  an 
ass  of  yourself." 

"  Nobody  sent  me  here,"  I  said. 

"  This,  then,  is  purely  a  sympathy  strike  on 
your  part— you  are  not  representing  the  em- 
ployees." 

''  Not  in  any  sense,"  I  answered,  "  but  if  you 
don't  see  that  this  man  gets  justice  —  I  quit  you 
cold." 

My  friend  smiled.  "  I  '11  see  that  they  all  get 
that,"  said  he. 


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1 84 


A    S 1  'MP A  TH I '  S  TR  IKE 


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■\'' 

The  General  Manager  turned  in  his  big,  swing- 
ing chair,  pressed  a  button,  and  when  the  boy 
came,  asked  for  the  papers  in  the  car-robbing 
case  at  Wideview. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  he,  and  I  threw  myself  into 
one  of  the  leather  chairs. 

"Ah,  here  it  is.  Confession  of  Mrs,  Mc- 
Quade." 

And  then  he  read  to  me  what  the  stenog- 
rapher, who,  seated  behind  a  screen,  had 
gleaned  from  the  sobs  of  the  heartbroken  wo- 
man, who,  a  few  days  previously,  had  made  full 
confession  to  the  manager.  She  told  how  at 
first  her  husband  had  brought  a  lot  of  silk  to  the 
house,  and  that  she  had  shown  it  to  the  neigh- 
bors, proudly,  and  that  her  husband  had  been 
angry  with  her  because  of  this.  He  had  been 
sued,  he  said,  for  a  debt  which  he  did  not  owe, 
and  if  the  constable  should  come  and  find  the 
silk  he  would  carry  it  away.  After  that,  when 
her  husband  brought  anything  home  he  hid  it 
under  the  floor.  Sometimes  the  "  Q "  man 
came  with  him,  and  after  awhile  Smith  came 
shyly,  carrying  bunJles.  They  seemed  to  do 
all  their  shopping  at  night. 


A    SVMrATffV  STRIKE 


185 


At  this  point  1  got  up  and  stood  at 
the  window  with  my  back  to  the  CJcneral 
Manager. 

One  night  the  boys  were  drinking  and  they 
took  a  lot  of  stuff  and  carried  it  away  with  them. 
By  this  time  Mrs.  McQuade  grew  uneasy  and 
asked  her  husband,  when  the  men  had  returned 
with  more  wliiskey,  where  they  had  been,  and 
what  it  all  meant. 

"  We  've  been  to  our  uncle  to  hang  up  some 
of  our  chattels,"  said  McQuade.  "  An'  if 
anybody  asks  you,  tell  'em  you  don't  sabe, 
see  ?  " 

And  then  the  new  car  repairer  came  one  night 
and  stayed,  drunk  on  the  floor,  while  the  boys 
went  back  to  work.  The  next  day  the  two 
switchmen  were  arrested.  The  car  repairer  was 
discharged  for  being  drunk,  and  went  away 
the  same  day. 

"  We  are  going  to  let  Smith  go  away  and  find 
employment  elsewhere,"  said  the  General  Man- 
ager, in  his  natural,  sympathetic  way  ;  "  because 
he's  young  and  was  led  into  this,  but  I  don't 
see  how  we  can  reinstate  him,  much  as  I  would 
like  to." 


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A    S VMP A  Tf/y  STRIKE 


I  made  no  reply. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at  so  intently  ?  "  asked 
the  official,  coming  over  toward  the  window. 

"  Horse,"  said  I,  "  horse  running  away  with  a 
milk-wagon." 


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A   RAILWAY   EMERGENCY 


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PENNSYLVANIA  furnishes  the  hero  as  well 
as  the  narrator  of  this  story,  for  the  story 
is  not  mine.  It  was  told  to  me  by  Mr.  S.  V. 
Derrah,  who  was  a  bashful,  beardless  youth 
when  he  wandered  into  the  West  and  struck  the 
"  New  Santa  Ft?  Trail "  at  Trinidad.  He  began 
his  railroad  career  when  this  tale  begins,  and  he 
began  at  the  bottom. 

The  rules  governing  the  actions  of  railway 
employees  in  this  country  are  almost  uniform,  — 
they  ought  to  be  perfectly  so.  The  rules  are 
made  to  cover  everything  but  emergencies,  and 
a  good  "emergency  man"  — a  man  who  is 
brave  enough  to  break  a  rule  — is  a  valuable 
man  to  a  railroad  company.  There  have  been 
hundreds  of  instances  where  frightful  accidents 
have  been  averted  by  the  quick  wit  of  an  emer- 
gency man. 


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A    KAlLllAV  EMEKGEXCY 


A  great  many  good  stories  remain  untold,  be- 
cause tlic  men  who  liold  the  secrets  know  tliat 
their  pubhcation  woultl  embarrass  those  respon- 
sible for  them.  Often  the  most  careful  man  will 
make  a  mistake  at  the  beginning  of  his  career, 
which,  if  published,  would  make  his  whole  life  a 
failure.  Sometimes  by  a  single  move,  in  the 
face  of  a  great  emergency,  a  young  man  places 
himself  under  the  eye  of  the  management  and 
in  the  sure  line  of  promotion. 

The  incident  related  here,  however,  seems  to 
have  n.-ide  no  great  difference  with  the  young 
hero.     Here  is  the  tale  :  — 

One  dark,  stormy  night  in  the  winter  of 
1.S81-82,  I  sat  in  the  waiting-room  of  the  old 
Santa  Fe  depot  at  Trinidad,  patiently  watching 
the  hands  of  the  clock  as  they  slowly  crept 
toward  the  point  on  the  dial  that  indicated 
midnight. 

California  Express  No.  104,  east-bound,  was 
reported  four  hours  late  at  Wallace,  and  at  Las 
Vegas  it  lost  thirty  minutes  more.  A  motley 
crowd  was  gathered  in  that  room,  and  as  the 
minutes  wore  into  hours,  and  the  reports  from 
the  delayed  train  became  more  discouraging,  it 


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A    RAILWAY  EAtKRGE.S'CV 


191 


was  apparent  to  all  that  dayliglit  would  still  fiiul 
us  in  Trinitlad.  A  roaring  fire  blazed  in  the 
mammoth  stove  that  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  and,  wearied  by  the  tedious  wait  or  made 
drowsy  by  the  heat,  those  who  were  so  fortunate 
as  to  secure  them,  stretched  out  at  full  length 
upon  the  benches  which  lined  the  room.  In 
one  corner,  wrapped  in  his  stnj>ed  blanket,  a 
Navajo  buck  snored  lustily,  vhile  beside  him 
upon  the  floor  sat  his  du  I.y  s(iuaw,  her  vigils 
keeping,  ever  and  anon  suckling  an  embryo 
Sitting  Hull,  who  at  other  times  stood  strap[)ed 
to  a  board  which  leaned  against  a  convenient 
bench.  In  another  corner  a  party  of  Mexicans 
and  cowboys,  from  a  ranch  up  the  "  Picket- 
wire,"  were  playing  "  high  five,"  and  the  fre- 
quent jingling  of  silver  indicated  that  it  was  not 
for  pastime  only.  A  bevy  of  gaudily  dressed 
maidens,  whose  rich,  olive  cheeks  and  languish- 
ing, dreamy  eyes  bespoke  their  Spanish  origin, 
chattered  and  laughed  over  the  fun  and  frolic  of 
the  ball  which  they  had  come  down  from  El 
Moro  to  attend  the  night  before.  'I'heir  escorts, 
bashful  and  awkward,  occupied  a  bench  at  the 
opposite   side    of   the   room,  and    contentedly 


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A    RAILWAY  EMERGENCY 


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smoked  their  cigarettes  in  silence.  A  couple  of 
miners  from  the  famous  "  Ten  Strike "  were 
sizing  up  their  losses  over  by  the  ticket  window, 
and  cursing  Victoria  and  his  devilish  Apaches, 
whose  bloody  raids  into  that  part  of  New  Mexico 
had  made  life  in  the  Black  Range  country  alto- 
gether too  unpleasant  for  them.  The  merry 
clicking  of  the  telegraph  instruments  in  the  ad- 
joining room  could  be  heard,  and  occasionally 
the  sleepy  operator  would  volunteer  some  cheer- 
less information  as  to  the  whereabouts  and  pros- 
pects of  "  No.  104." 

Outside  the  wind  blew  in  fitful  gusts,  the  snow 
sifting  in  tluv-^gh  the  crevices  in  doors  and  win- 
dows, only  to  last  a  brief  moment  in  that  stifling 
atmosphere.  Through  the  small  niullioned  win- 
dows could  be  seen  the  flickering  street  lamps, 
upon  snow-covered  wooden  posts,  that  stood 
like  ghosdy  sentinels  at  long  intervals  on  Com- 
mercial Street.  Diagonally  across,  and  high  up 
in  one  of  the  blocks  on  Main  Street,  gleamed  a 
row  of  lights  which  marked  the  News  Office, 
where  Editor  Newell  nightly  prepared  the  mental 
pabulum  on  which  the  "  unterrified  "  of  that  day 
fed  and  waxed  fat.      Near  the   bridge,   which 


A  RAILWAY  f-:Mi:R(i/':xcy 


193 


spans  the  "  Picketwire  "  stood  pcg-lcgged  Pete's 
dance  house,  and  the  sounds  of  revehy  and  de- 
bauchery borne  upon  tlie  night  wind  mingled 
weirdly  and  gruesomely  with  the  dismal  creaking 
of  the  old  windmill,  that  for  so  many  years  held 
sway  upon  the  opi)osite  bank  of  the  stream. 

About  one  o'clock  I  turned  to  the  telegraph 
window,  when  the  following  message  posted  on 
the  bulletin  board  caught  my  eye  :  — 

I-\  Jl'NIA,  Nov.  

Agent  R.  So,  —  Start  engineer  Murphy  for  La 

Junta  at  2  A.  M.  with  Kng.  63,  light. 

A.  T. 

I  immediately  determined  to  be  a  passenger 
on  "  63  "  if  I  could  get  Murphy  to  carry  me. 
About  1.30  Mr.  Murphy  showed  up,  and,  after 
1  presented  my  credentials,  he  consented  to  take 
me  along  if  1  would  promise  not  to  fall  out 
of  the  cab  window  and  disfigure  the  right  of 
way.  I  agreed  to  this  provided  he  kcjit  on  the 
rails,  so  the  matter  was  settled.  Shortly  after, 
the  fireman  brought  his  engine  out  of  the  round- 
house, and  quickly  signing  his  orders  and  "  oil- 
ing round,"  Murphy  and  I  climbed  on  board. 

The  "  63  "  was  Murphy's  pride  ;  a  swift,  pow- 

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194 


A    RAILIVAV  EMERGENCY 


■  fl 


erful,  and  handsome  giant,  that  responded 
promptly  to  his  every  touch  and  wish,  and 
seemed  ahnost  human  in  its  obedience.  Throw- 
ing forward  the  lever,  Murphy  took  his  seat,  and, 
shooting  a  quick  glance  ahead,  to  where  the 
multitude  of  switch  lights  flashed  their  signals  of 
warning  or  safety,  his  hand  grasped  the  throttle, 
and  a  moment  later  we  were  off  for  an  eighty- 
mile  dash  into  the  darkness  of  the  night,  with  a 
clear  track  as  far  as  Thatcher,  thirty-six  miles 
away,  where  we  were  to  meet  '*  No.  103  "  and 
report  for  orders.  Slowly  at  first,  then  faster 
and  faster  turned  the  huge  drivers,  until  by  the 
time  we  had  reached  the  yard  limits,  and  passed 
the  last  friendly  light,  the  old  "  63  "  had  warmed 
well  up  to  her  work,  and  was  dancing  along  the 
rails  like  a  thing  of  life.  Not  a  word  was  spoken 
until  we  slowed  up  for  the  Denver  and  Rio 
Grande  crossing,  at  El  Moro,  when  Murphy  re- 
marked it  was  about  the  blackest  night  he  had 
ever  seen  hang  over  the  road.  Again  he  opened 
the  throttle,  and,  with  bell  ringing,  and  a  lurid 
glow  from  the  fire-box  throwing  a  weird  though 
beautiful  Rembrandt  against  the  inky  sky,  we 
shot  across  the  narrow  gauge  tracks  and  sped 


fi 


A   RAILWAY  EMERGENCY 


195 


the 
cen 
Rio 
re- 
had 
ned 
urid 

DUgh 

we 
sped 


on  our  way.  With  one  leg  partially  crossed 
under  him,  and  his  faithful  left  arm  still  grasping 
the  throttle,  old  Murphy  sat  motionless  as  a 
statue,  his  eyes  peering  through  the  narrow  cab 
window,  although,  save  for  the  reflection  of  the 
headlight  upon  the  track,  all  was  as  black  as 
an  Egyptian  night. 

At  that  time,  Thatcher  was  the  only  telegraph 
station  between  Trinidad  and  La  Junta.  Each 
station,  or  siding,  however,  was  provided  with  a 
telegraph  box,  and  every  train  crew  was  re- 
quired to  carry  an  operator  and  a  portable  in- 
strument. Thus,  if  a  train  got  off  its  time  the 
operator  would  "  cut  in  "  at  the  first  siding  and 
report  to  the  despatcher  for  orders.  Sometimes 
when  the  snow  was  deep  and  the  operator  too 
short  to  reach  the  box  conveniently,  the  mes- 
sages that  emanated  from  those  improvised 
offices  would  melt  the  plugs  out  of  the  switch- 
board at  La  Junta. 

On  we  flew,  past  ranches  and  dugouts,  over 
bridges  and  around  curves,  until  we  had  left 
Hoehnes,  Earls,  and  Tyrone  far  behind,  although, 
save  for  the  occasional  shriek  of  the  whistle, 
announcing  the  approach  to  a  station,  and  an 


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A    RAILWAY  EMERGENCY 


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extra  jar  as  we  crossed  the  switch  frogs,  there 
was  nothing  to  indicate  the  vicinity  of  any  living 
thing.  Suddenly  rounding  a  curve,  the  green 
signal  light  at  Thatcher  came  into  view,  and, 
with  a  glance  at  the  steam  gauge  and  another 
at  his  watch,  Murphy  opened  wide  the  throttle, 
and  as  if  maddened  by  the  touch,  the  iron 
steed  shot  ahead,  and  with  every  nerve  throb- 
bing dashed  down  the  half-mile  stretch  and  up 
the  long  grade,  on  the  summit  of  which  stood 
the  station.  A  few  minutes  after  getting  our 
running  orders,  the  head-light  of"  103"  showed 
up,  and  \  ery  soon  the  New  York  Express  thun- 
dered up  alongside  of  us,  and  a  moment  later 
was  gone  again,  the  tail  lights  on  the  sleeper 
looking  like  balls  of  fire  as  they  dissolved  in  the 
darkness. 

Once  more  aboard  with  a  down  grade  and  a 
"  regardless "  order,  the  fireman  curled  up  on 
the  seat  I  had  vacated  and  was  soon  lost  in 
slumber.  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  have  some 
cigars  with  me,  and,  offering  one  to  Murphy,  was 
pleased  to  note  that  after  lighting  the  same  his 
grim,  stern  features  relaxed,  and  beckoning  me  to 
share  his  seat,  he  seemed  disposed  to  be  sociable. 


A   RAlLll^AV  EmiRGE.VCy 


197 


ere 

^ing 

een 

ind, 

ther 

>Ule, 

iron 
irob- 
kd  up 
stood 
I  our 
lowed 

thun- 
t  later 
leeper 

in  the 

and  a 
up  on 
lost  in 
e  some 
hy,  was 
me  his 
me  to 
)ciable. 


There  was  nothing  to  do  but  watch  the  steam 
gauge  and  keep  an  eye  on  the  track  ahead,  and 
soon  we  were  skimming  along  at  a  forty-five 
mile  pace.  It  transpired  in  conversation  that 
Murphy  was  an  oKi  Pennsylvanian,  and  before 
coming  West  had  put  in  some  long  and  hard 
years  of  service  on  eastern  roads.  Pressing  him 
for  some  incidents  of  life  on  the  footboard,  he 
mellowed  up  at  once,  and  regaled  mc  with  story 
after  story,  all  of  which  were  replete  with  inter- 
est, and  many  of  them  exciting  to  a  high  degree. 
Some  of  these  had  already  worked  their  way 
into  print,  but  to  be  fully  appreciated  should  be 
told  with  all  the  wild  accessories  which  sur- 
rounded them  that  wintry  night.  Incidents  in 
railroad  life  during  the  rebellion  and  during  the 
Mollie  Maguire  troubles  in  the  coal  regions, 
hairbreadth  escapes  from  collisions  and  falling 
bridges,  followed  in  quick  succession,  until  I 
felt  that  we  were  about  to  repeat  in  fact  what  I 
was  listening  to  in  story. 

After  dashing  through  Iron  Springs,  the  shrill 
scream  of  the  whistle  had  hardly  died  away 
when  the  old  man  •'  shut  her  off,"  and  slowed  up 
for  water  at  Timpas.     I  was  quite  overcome  by 


71 

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*'<»i»<i»'  <i>i*n>f  m*  'iii^-»»'<<ri  w«MWi^>w^ 


' 


\     ': 


198 


A    XAILIVAV  EA/ERGENCy 


fatigue  and  the  strange  experience  of  the  trip, 
and,  while  Murphy  once  more  lubricated  the 
muscles  of  old  "  63,"  I  fell  into  a  doze  from  which 
I  with  difficulty  awakened  after  he  again  came 
into  the  cab  and  once  more  started  us  on  our 
journey.  A  fresh  cigar  limbered  him  up  again, 
and  shortly  after  whistling  for  Benton,  he  took 
a  few  vigorous  whiffs,  and  said :  "  Now,  young 
man,  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  a  story  that  has 
never  got  into  the  newspapers.  It  was  away 
back  in  the  early  seventies,  and  at  that  time  I  was 
pulling  the  midnight  express  on  the  old  Williams- 
port  &  Catawissa  road,  my  run  being  from  Wil- 
liamsport  to  Onakake.  We  were  scheduled  to 
leave  Williamsport  at  11.30  p.m.,  but  one 
Friday  night  in  September  we  were  held  thirty 
minutes  to  await  transfer  of  passengers  who  had 
come  down  on  the  Northern  Central.  Now  I 
always  get  kind  o*  nervous  when  I  register  out 
late,  especially  if  it  happens  on  a  Friday.  I  was 
more  than  usually  careful  when  I  oiled  around 
the  old  '  F.  B.  Gowen  '  that  night  (our  engines 
were  all  named  those  days),  and  I  made  the  car 
inspector  take  another  good  look  over  the  train 
before  I  got  into  the  cab.     He  reported  every- 


A    RAILirAV  EMERGEXCV 


199 


thing  'O.  K.,'  and  at  11.30  p.m.  we  pulled 
slowly  out  of  the  archway,  and  were  soon  skii> 
ping  along  the  west  branch  of  the  Suscjuehanna. 
Muncy,  Milton,  Lewisburg,  and  Sunbi.ry  suc- 
cessively were  reached  and  passed,  and  although 
everything  seemed  all  right,  I  could  not  by  any 
means  pick  up  the  thirty  minutes  we  had  lost  at 
VVilliamsport.  Ordinarily  it  was  easy,  but  that 
night  it  was  simply  impossible  to  recover  a  min- 
ute of  our  lost  time,  and,  in  fact,  we  pulled  into 
Tamaqua  just  forty  minutes  late.  There  we 
got  orders  to  run  to  Onakake  '  regardless,'  but 
to  meet  extra  north,  conductor  Grey,  at  that 
point.  After  signing  the  order  we  pulled  out  at 
once,  and  were  soon  spinning  along  until  Rupert, 
Danville,  and  Catawissa  were  far  to  our  rear, 
when  suddenly  my  fireman  exclaimed  :  '  There  's 
a  red  light  out  at  Ringtown.' 

"  Now  there  was  no  meeting-point  at  Ring- 
town  down  on  the  card,  and  I  held  orders  to 
run  to  Onakake  regardless ;  so  I  was  a  little 
shaken  up  when  I  saw  that  red  signal.  As  we 
had  a  down-grade  run,  with  good  prospects  of 
making  up  some  of  our  lost  time,  the  sight  of 
that  signal  made  me  rather  warm  under  the  col- 


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jl 


V 


Jl-l 


!■: 


\ 


\      ' 


P. 


.1, 


200 


A   RA/LirAV  EMERC.ESCY 


lar,  but  1  shut  off  steam,  whistled  for  brakes, 
and  brought  the  train  to  a  full  stop  at  the  little 
depot.  I  found  the  operator  sitting  inside 
calmly  smoking  a  pipe,  and  at  once  demanded 
to  know  by  whose  orders  I  had  been  flagged. 
Without  looking  up  from  the  message  he  was 
sending,  he  calmly  informed  me  that  he  had 
hung  out  the  signal  on  his  own  responsibility, 
and  that  no  one  that  he  was  aware  of  had  given 
him  any  orders. 

"  He  was  a  young  lad  of  about  seventeen,  I 
should  judge,  with  rosy  cheeks  and  big  brown 
eyes  that  looked  right  at  you  without  flinching. 
Something  in  his  countenance  told  me  that  he 
would  not  stand  too  much  stirring  up,  and, 
though  I  was  boiling  mad,  I  curbed  my  anger 
somewhat  and  remarked :  '  Look  here,  young 
man,  when  you  get  through  monkeying  with 
that  instrument  I  will  be  pleased  to  hear  you 
explain  why  you  have  taken  it  upon  yourself  to 
hold  a  passenger  train  without  orders  to  do  so.' 

"  Before  he  had  time  to  reply,  I  heard  the 
whistle  and  distant  rumble  of  an  approaching 
train,  and,  rushing  to  the  door,  looked  down  the 
track,  ahd  there,  just  coming  round  the  curve, 


A    RAILiyAV  EAfERGEXCV 


201 


I  saw  the  reflection  of  a  headlight,  which,  com- 
ing nearer  and  nearer,  finally  stopped  altogether, 
and  I  knew  a  north-bound  train  was  taking  the 
siding  at  the  south  end  of  the  yard.  Then  the 
situation  suddenly  flashed  upon  me. 

"  I  was  being  held  for  a  north-bound  freight 
train  which  evidently  had  not  been  protected 
against  the  midnight  express. 

'•  I  excitedly  thrust  my  hand  in  the  pocket  of 
my  blouse  and  drew  out  my  orders.  Although 
the  words  seemed  to  swim  before  my  eyes,  there 
could  be  no  mistake  as  to  their  meaning. 

"  *  Midnight  express,  eng'r  Murphy,  will  run 
to  Onakake  regardless  of  all  trains. 

(Signed), 

**  *  Midnight  express,  eng'r  Murphy,  will  meet 
extra,  engine  io6,  cond'r  Grey,  at  Onakake. 

(Signed)' 

"  Merciful  God  !  Had  not  that  red  light, 
which  I  dared  not  run  by,  stopped  me  at  that 
little  station  away  up  there  among  the  Pennsyl- 
vania hills,  the  midnight  express,  with  its  load  of 
living  freight,  would  have  met  and  crashed  into 
the  heavy  north-bound  freight  tiain  not  very  far 
beyond  that  curve.     For  a  moment  I  pictured 


i 


•a- 


'V 


iV 


;/ft 


i 

\ 


I 


202 


A    KA/LirAV  EMERGENCY 


i 


the  awful  horrors  of  such  a  calamity,  listened  to 
the  wails  and  shrieks  of  the  mangled  and  dying, 
and  saw  in  imagination  the  crushed  and  wounded, 
intermingled  with  the  debris  of  that  terrible 
wreck.  Then  I  seemed  to  collect  my  scattered 
senses.  While  thus  engaged,  the  young  operator 
came  up  and  coolly  inquired  ;  *  Well,  old  man, 
have  you  found  out  what  1  flagged  you  for? '  I 
shook  his  hand  in  a  grasp  that  nearly  crushed  it 
and  replied :  '  I  knew  something  awful  would 
happen  to-night ;  but  tell  me  how  it  all  occurred.* 

"  It  was  a  short  story,  briefly  told. 

"  While  smoking  his  pipe  to  help  pass  away 
the  time  and  almost  involuntarily  listening  to  the 
messages  that  flew  0"*^  the  wires,  he  had  heard 
an  order  for  extra  north,  conductor  Grey,  to 
meet  the  midnight  express  at  Ringtown.  Some 
time  after  this  he  heard  the  operator  at  Port 
Clinton  tell  the  despatcher  that  owing  to  a  hot- 
box  Grey  would  probably  be  thirty  minutes  late 
in  getting  out.  It  was  now  about  four  o'clock, 
and  he  was  just  getting  his  *  good-night'  from 
the  operator  at  Danville  (a  mighty  pretty  young 
thing  she  was,  too),  when  the  despatcher  broke 
in  with  an  order  for  the  midnight  express  to 


A    RAlLirAV  /■: MERGE XCV 


203 


meet  extra  north,  Conductor  Grey,  at  Onakake. 
It  was  no  uncommon  thing  to  cancel  a  train  order, 
and  while  he  hstened,  quite  as  a  matter  of  habit 
and  not  of  interest,  it  soon  passed  from  his  mind. 
When,  however,  tlie  night  express  whistled  for 
Ringtown  it  flashed  upon  him  that  he  had  not 
heard  anything  over  the  wire  cancelling  the 
order  for  the  extra  to  meet  the  passenger  train 
at  Ringtown.  He  flew  for  his  red  lamp,  which 
he  quickly  lighted  and  swung  across  the  track 
just  as  the  express  appeared  over  the  brow  of 
the  hill. 

**  Who  was  to  blame  ?  Well,  now,  I  don't 
care  to  answer  that.  When  the  superintendent 
had  us  up  on  the  carpet  the  despatcher  furnished 
his  order  book,  and  there  was  the  copy  of  a 
message  to  the  operator  at  Onakake  to  '  flag  and 
hold  extra  north,  Cond'r  Grey,  for  orders,' 
which  was  underlined  to  show  that  it  ..ad  been 
repeated  back,  and  had  the  usual  operator's 
*0.  K.'  in  the  left-hand  corner. 

"  The  operator  swore  point-blank  that  he  had 
not  received  such  a  message,  consequently  he 
couldn't  have  repeated  it  back.  Grey  and  I 
were  all  right,  for  our  orders  were  straight,  and 


i 


'  \ 


7 

I 


^ 


'  \ 


t 

V 


V 

S 


iV 


<-~    *  »       •  VI 


w^ 


\ 


i 


'    1 


' 


I*      < 
If      ' 


H 


204 


A    KA/HyAy  EMERGENCY 


we  took  out  our  runs  as  usual  the  next  day. 
The  Onakake  operator,  poor  devil,  was  fired, 
but  between  you  and  me  I  thought  him  inno- 
cent, and  believe  to  this  day  that  that  third  trick 
man  doctored  his  order-lxjok  to  cover  up  the 
'  lap.'  liut,  as  Dooley  used  to  say,  '  It 's  hard 
to  beat  the  gang,'  and  the  despatcher  was  not 
even  censured. 

"  The  officials  suppressed  this  affair  as  much 
as  possible,  and  1  doubt  if  a  half-dozen  of  the 
three  hundred  passengers  on  the  midnight  ex- 
press ever  knew  how  near  to  eternity  they  were 
on  that  awful  Friday   night. 

"What  became  of  the  young  operator  at  Ring- 
town,  and  who  was  he?  He  is  fast  working  his 
way  up  the  railroad  ladder,  and  will  some  day 
get  to  the  top.  He  is  J.  P.  Flynn,  chairman  of 
the  Colorado- Utah  Traffic  Association." 


Hailroaoing  m  iPrame 


)  <i 


if  f 


'■)i 


A 


m 


] 


(l! 


I    \ 


vn 


\    \ 


•■)  ' 


RAILROADING   IN   FRANCE 


} 

ii 


CHEMIN  de  Fer  du  Nord  "  is  the  name 
of  the  railway  that  runs  from  Paris 
down  to  the  English  Cliannel.  Near  the  coast 
the  road  forks.  One  leg  of  the  "  Y  "  going  to 
Calais  connects  with  the  boats  of  the  London, 
Chatham  and  Dover  Railway,  the  other  touching 
at  Boulogne  interchanges  uaffic  with  the  Lon- 
don and  Southeastern.  Thus,  feeding  from  both 
sides,  as  it  were,  like  a  steam  thresher,  the  "  Iron 
Road  of  the  North  "  gets  a  good  share  of  the 
business  coming  into  France  from  England. 
This  property  is  controlled  by  the  Rothschilds, 
is  well  managed,  and  is  the  only  railway  in 
France  that  pays  more  than  operating  expenses 
in  a  legitimate  way.  There  is  another  road 
pointing  out  toward  the  Pyrenees  that  pays, 
but  not  as  the  Nord  pays. 

Because  a  sick  and  suffering  child,  miserable 
in  mind  and  body,  had  a  vision  of  the  Virgin 


V 

V 


i  i 


m. 


■  i\ 


\A] 


-•'^ 


!  :j 


I 


»   i 


;i 


r 


208 


RAILROADING  IN  FRANCE 


Mary  in  a  grotto  at  Lourdes,  they  built  a  chapel 
there,  and  hundreds  of  people  went  there  to 
worship.  The  sleepy  old  town  grew  like  a  min- 
ing camp,  and  in  time  another  child,  with  a 
bandage  on  her  foot,  dipped  her  wounded  mem- 
ber in  the  spring  at  the  grotto,  removed  the  rag, 
and  found  the  sore  had  healed.  Thus  another 
miracle  was  recorded.  Three  years  ago  Zola 
went  with  the  regular  annual  pilgrimage  and 
wrote  a  book,  but  instead  of  discouraging  the 
faithful  or  reducing  the  numbr r  of  visitors,  the 
story  Zola  told  seems  to  have  had  the  opposite 
effect,  for  last  year  thousands  of  sufferers  went 
to  Lourdes,  and  that 's  why  the  Southern  Railway 
pays  'a  dividend,  which  it  f:  xled  to  do  before 
Bernadette  related  her  dream. 

The  railways  of  France  are  not  owned  and 
operated  by  the  Government,  as  they  are  in 
Germany,  or  by  stockholders,  as  they  are  in 
England,  but  by  both.  When  you  buy  a  rail- 
way ticket  in  France  twelve  per  cent  of  what 
you  pay  for  that  ticket  goes  directly  to  the 
Government.  For  this  the  State  guarantees  a 
reasonable  interest  on  the  money  actually  in- 
vested in  building  and  equipping  the  road.     At 


.         \ 


.RAILROADING  fX  FRAXCK 


209 


the  end  of  the  year  if  tlie  road  has  run  behind 
and  failed  to  earn  expenses  (and  it  invariably 
does  fail  with  the  exceptions  noted)  the  stock- 
holders do  not  apply  for  a  receiver ;  the  Gov- 
ernment simply  steps  in,  makes  good  the 
shortage,  and  the  same  officials  continue  to  do 
business  at  the  old  stand. 

One  would  naturally  suppose  that,  being  thus 
secure  in  their  places,  the  officials  would  be- 
come arrogant,  icy,  and  unapproachable,  but 
they  are  the  most  obliging,  genial  railway  offi- 
cials on  earth.  The  secretary  of  two  of  the 
biggest  and  best  roads  in  France,  whose  office 
corresponds  with  our  general  manager's,  stood 
up  and  bowed  to  me  when  I  entered,  and  then 
sat  down  and  chatted  as  pleasantly  as  though  I 
had  been  an  ambassador.  They  are  deeply  in- 
terested in  all  that  is  going  on  in  the  American 
railway  world,  and  men  are  kept  to  translate 
whatever  is  written  by  Americans  of  the  railways 
over  here. 

If,  by  any  streak  of  good  luck,  such  as  has 
come  ,to  the  line  to  Lourdes,  a  railway  begins 
to  earn  more  than  operating  expenses  and  in- 
terest on  the  money  invested,  the  surplus  goes 


lu- 
ff 


j  1 , 


i 


;♦. 


i 


1^ 


h 


210 


RAILROADING  IN  FRANCE 


to  the  State  to  make  good  what  has  been  ad- 
vanced to  the  railway  company. 

In  return  for  all  it  guarantees  to  the  railways 
the  Government  reserves  the  right,  in  case  of 
war,  to  take  possession  of  all  the  railways,  roll- 
ing stock,  and  officials,  at  a  moment's  notice. 
With  a  touch  of  the  key  the  President  of  France 
can  make  a  colonel  of  the  su[)erintendent,  a 
captain  of  the  station  agent,  and  soldiers  of  the 
section  men. 

As  the  officials  are  interested  in  the  manage- 
ment of  American  railways,  so  are  the  employees 
interested  in  the  struggles  and  tribulations  of  the 
railway  employees  in  the  United  States.  They 
read  closely  and  discuss  hotly  all  that  goes  on 
over  here,  and  during  the  Pullman  strike  at 
Chicago  that  was  one  of  the  matters  regularly 
discussed  at  the  meetings  of  La  Fraternelle. 
This  organization  is  the  oldest  and  strongest  in 
the  republic,  having  a  fund  of  15,000,000  francs. 
A  rival  organization  has  been  formed  lately,  but 
it  is  more  of  a  political  order,  and  does  not 
amount  to  much.  La  Fraternelle  is  an  organ- 
ization somewhat  similar  to  the  American  Rail- 
way Union,  admitting  to  membership  all  classes 


RAILROADING  IN  FRANCE 


I  I 


of  railway  employees  and  including  among  its 
numbers  many  prominent  officials.  'I  hey  have 
very  few  strikes  among  the  employees  in  France. 
The  men  appear  to  be  very  well  satisfied,  and  to 
feel  secure  in  their  places.  This  is  due  mainly 
to  the  kindness  of  the  officials.  Engine  men 
are  especially  optimistic  at  all  times,  since  it  is 
the  rule  in  France  to  choose  all  officials  of  the 
locomotive  department  from  among  the  men,  so 
there  is  the  eternal  spring  of  hope  to  encourage 
them. 

The  system  employed  by  the  French  in  mak- 
ing up  the  pay-roll  is  hard  to  understand.  First 
there  is  a  fixed  salary  for  train  and  engine  men, 
and  what  one  receives  above  that  amount  de- 
pends upon  the  mileage  made  and  the  time  it 
has  taken  to  make  that  mileage.  In  addition 
to  all  this  there  is  a  small  premium  in  economy 
in  oil  and  fuel,  and  upon  the  care  of  the  loco- 
motive, rolling  stock,  or  other  property  in  the 
employees'  care.  The  pay  of  an  engine  driver 
runs  from  $65  to  $85  a  month.  Firemen  earn 
from  $45  to  $50  a  month.  Conductors  get  from 
$30  to  $50  a  month. 

It  would  be  hard  for  railway  employees  here 


s'i 

i 

i  > 


n 


^  , 


I    ♦, 


;^ 


212 


RAILROADING  IN  FRANCE 


to  understand  how  a  man  can  be  perfectly 
contented  to  fire  a  locomotive  four  or  five 
years  for  forty  and  fifty  dollars,  or  how  an 
engine  driver  can  be  perfectly  happy  at  eighty- 
five  dollars  a  month,  standing  on  a  seatless, 
cabless  engine  through  the  long  bitter  cold 
winter  nights  —  and  northern  France  is  cold. 
French  employees  do  not  require  as  much  in 
the  way  of  comforts  of  life  as  Americans  do. 
Your  Frenchman  with  four  sous'  worth  of  bread 
and  cheese  and  five  sous'  worth  of  sour  wine 
will  make  a  meal.  His  three  meals  a  day  will 
not  cost  him  more  than  thirty  cents,  while  an 
American  in  a  similar  capacity  pays  thirty-five 
cents  a  meal.  Being  accustomed  to  the  cold, 
the  Frenchman  sleeps  in  a  fireless  room  and 
looks  for  nothing  better.  In  short,  with  half 
the  wages  and  none  of  the  comforts,  he  is  about 
twice  as  happy  as  the  average  raihvay  employee 
in  America. 

Except  in  cases  of  gross  carelessness  or  drunk- 
enness on  duty,  an  employee  is  seldom  dis- 
charged unless  the  charges  made  against  him 
are  well  sustained,  after  thorough  investigation, 
during  which  he  has  ample  opportunity  to  de- 


^ 


t  'J 


.^»  =*^^  nt*%  r-^-P-" 


RAILROADING  I.V  FRANCE 


213 


[unk- 
dis- 
him 

Itioii; 
de- 


fend  his  cause.  The  management,  as  a  rule, 
does  not  consider  the  organization  of  employees 
as  detrimental  to  the  service.  On  the  contrary, 
such  organization  is  rather  encouraged  than 
otherwise  so  long  as  the  object  is  mutual  aid ; 
but  they  fight  hard  against  the  formation  of  any- 
thing of  a  political  nature. 

One  is  surprised  at  the  army  of  idle  porters, 
who  do  the  work  of  office-boys,  but  they  are  all 
big  grown-up  men,  ...id  it  takes  at  least  a  half 
dozen  of  them  to  do  the  work  usually  done  by 
a  bright  boy  in  this  country.  Even  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  shops  or  yards  you  will  find  a 
closed  gate,  a  little  office  or  bureau^  as  they  call 
it,  and  a  half-dozen  men,  half  police,  and  half 
porters,  in  charge  of  this  gate.  Just  outside  the 
office  of  the  director  of  one  of  the  large  railways 
I  saw  eight  big,  round-faced,  clipped-headed 
porters  seated  at  a  long  table  wailing  to  take  in 
the  card  of  any  visitor  who  might  call.  One  of 
them  took  my  card  and  passed  it  up  to  the 
man  who  appeared  to  be  the  chief.  That  in- 
dividual shot  a  few  sharp  glances  at  me,  and 
directed  one  of  the  men  to  "  throw  me  in " 
on  a  siding  while  he  submitted  my  card  to  a 


i 


vs 


U\ 


n, 


I 


,1 


f. 


1 

■ 

1 

^  ■-\\ 

'* 

i 

>  1 

> 

([ 

rk 

■? 

t: 

1 

i 

1 

214 


FAILROAD/NG  IN  FRANCE 


number  of  under-clerks.  Presently  a  young 
man  came  out  and  said  in  an  embarrassed  way 
that  he  was  afraid  "  zat  ze  secretary  "  could  not 
see  me. 

"  Give  this  to  him,"  said  I,  "and  let  him  de- 
cide the  matter,"  and  I  handed  the  clerk  a 
letter  from  the  United  States  Embassy.  In  less 
than  two  minutes  I  was  in  the  presence  of  a 
director  who  stood  up  to  receive  me.  It 's  the 
same  everywhere.  My  embarrassment  always 
ends  when  I  get  past  the  typewriter  and  the 
office-boy. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  features  in  the 
management  of  the  railways  in  France  is  the 
system  of  retiring  pensions  in  vogue  on  some 
of  the  large  railways.  All  "  commissioned  em- 
ployees," as  they  are  called,  which  includes  all 
staff  officers,  men  employed  in  the  transportation 
and  locomotive  departments  and  on  permanent 
way,  are  entitled  to  a  retiring  pension  when  they 
reach  the  age  of  fifty-five  years,  or  have  served 
the  company  a  quarter  of  a  century.  The 
amount  of  the  pension  depends  upon  the  aver- 
age pay  drawn  by  the  employee,  but  is  never 
less  than  six  hundred  nor  more  than  nine  hun- 


RAILROADING  I.V  FRANCE 


215 


dred  francs  a  year.  If  an  employee  is  com- 
pelled by  any  misfortune  to  leave  the  service  or 
is  forced  to  retire  after  having  served  fifteen  or 
twenty  years,  he  receives  a  retiring  pension  ; 
but  in  that  case  it  is  never  more  than  four 
hundred  and  fifty  or  less  than  three  hundred 
francs. 

A  widow  is  entided  to  one  half  the  pension 
of  her  husband,  provided  the  marriage  took 
place  two  years  previous  to  the  husband's  death. 
This  seems  a  hard  rule,  but  it  is  necessary,  I  am 
told,  to  guard  against  enterprising  young  widows 
who  are  wont  to  spring  up  unexpectedly  and 
come  weeping  around  the  grave  of  a  dead  pen- 
sioner. Sometimes  the  woman  came  alone, 
sometimes  leading  a  little  child  whom  the  rela- 
tives of  the  dead  man  had  never  seen. 

To  provide  for  this  retiring  pension  fund  three 
per  cent  of  the  wages  of  each  employee  is  re- 
tained, to  which  the  company  adds  an  amount 
equal  to  twelve  per  cent  of  the  wages.  In  other 
words,  four-fifths  of  the  fund  is  contributed  by 
the  company.  A  very  important  rule  to  the 
employees  is  one  providinp'  that  in  case  a  ser- 
vant severs  his  connection  with  the  road,  even 


^ 


I 

ili 


,^: 


C     ■  ! 


3l6 


RAILROADING  IN  FRANCE 


." 


I    !■ 


if  he  is  dismissed  by  the  company  before  he  has 
served  long  enough  to  be  entitled  to  a  pension, 
all  the  money  he  has  contributed  to  the  pension 
fund  is  returned  with  interest. 

Day  laborers  who  do  not  contribute  to  the 
pension  fund  have  no  share,  of  course,  in  the 
benefits  of  that  fund,  but  they  are  not  forgotten 
by  the  company.  If  they  have  served  fifteen 
years,  they  receive  a  retiring  pension  equal  to 
one-half  the  amount  receixel  by  commissioned 
employees.  This  fund  is  provided  almost  en- 
tirely by  the  railroad  company. 

Those  who  have  served  but  a  short  time,  if 
overtaken  by  any  serious  trouble,  are  usually 
cared  for  in  the  same  way  by  the  management, 
and  all  this  tends  to  make  the  employees  appre- 
ciate what  they  have  and  strive  to  hold  their 
places  or  gain  better  places  with  better  wages. 
Very  friendly  are  the  relations  of  the  railways 
to  the  press  and  the  press  to  the  railways. 
Passes  are  given  more  freely,  if  anything,  to 
reputable  journalists  than  they  are  in  America. 
A  great  many  political  men,  including  ex-mem- 
bers of  Parliament,  are  considered  to  be  entitled 
to   permanent  passes.      T^"o  varieties  of   the 


RAILROADING  IN  FRANCE 


217 


French  politician  invariably  refuse  free  trans- 
portation, -  the  man  who  is  extremely  con- 
scientious, and  the  fellow  who  is  only  acting  to 
fool  the  people.  These  good  souls  either  pay 
fare  or  walk.  ' 


'/ 


lit 


I' 


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if 


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it 


AR'   YE  WOTH   IT?" 


/^LD  Mr.  B.  owned  a  big  farm  out  in  Michi- 
^^     gan.     He  had  heaps  of  horses,  sheep, 
cattle,  and  hogs,  and  a  boy  —  a  dreamy,  blue- 
eyed  boy  — whom  he  called  Steve.     Steve  was 
a  good  boy,  as  boys  go,  but  he  never  seemed  to 
fit  in  on  the  farm.     He  never  complained,  but 
appeared  dissatisfied.     He  was  forever  looking 
do'vn  the  dusty  road  that  ran  away  to  the  town, 
where  the  train  stopped,  picked  people  up,  and 
carried  them   away   into  the   wide,   interesting 
world.     When  he  started  across  the  lield  again 
he  would  hold  the  plough  with  one  hand,  walk 
sidewise,  and  look  back  over  his  shoulder. 

Finally  old  Mr.  B.  took  the  plough  from  Steve 
and  cold  him  to  go  'way  for  a  spell,  and  see  if 
he  did  n't  want  to  get  back  worse  'an  he  ever 
wanted  to  pet  away. 

Stev-  went.     He  wandered  into  the  far  West 
and  began  "railroading"  where  the  setting  sun 


i  %, 


i. 

if-. 

M 


1 


I: 


f 


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i 


•<NI'«([.W|»f, 


-  -^^^^^^-^^-^Ml^^SlSWililiN^ 


,<^»«»4BiKi*^^''-J 


i/; 


I    / 


222 


*'A/i'    VE    WOTH  ITV 


If 

,1"  1,1 


tints  the  snowy  summit  of  the  Sangre  de  Cristo 
range.  He  began  doing  whatever  he  found  to 
do,  —  pushing  a  truck  or  a  lead  pencil,  —  and  in 
a  little  while  they  began  to  promote  him.  Every 
time  his  pay  was  increased  he  thought  of  the 
old  folks,  and  planned  a  visit  back  to  the  farm. 
He  would  write  home  and  tell  them  about  his 
promotion,  but  it  was  not  a  nice  thing  to  leave 
a  new  job,  and  by  the  time  he  had  mastered  it, 
they  would  promote  him  again.  So,  from  yej;.r 
to  year,  as  his  pay  and  importance  to  the  com- 
pany increased,  he  found  it  harder  and  harder 
to  get  away. 

When  he  found  the  word  "  General "  printed 
after  his  name,  and  looked  at  the  cheque  that 
the  company  sent  him  at  the  end  of  each  month, 
he  said  :  "  I  '11  have  to  hustle  to  earn  all  this 
money,"  and  the  trip  back  tp  the  scenes  of  his 
boyhood's  happy  home  down  on  the  farm  was 
put  aside  again. 

But  there  came  a  time  when  young  Mr.  B. 
needed  rest.  The  general  manager  suggested 
a  vacation,  but  Mr.  B.  said  he  could  not  spare 
the  time. 

"Take  thirty  days,"  said  the  manager ;  "or 


*w^*  VE  ivorff  /Tr' 


223 


I'll  give   you  sixty;"   and    Steve    started  for 
Michigan. 

One  warm,  midsummer  day,  Steve  found  him- 
self seated  under  the  old  Baldwin  apple-tree,  with 
the  half  hull  of  a  red-hearted   watermelon   in 
h,s  lap.     Old  Mr.  B.,  busy  with  the  other  half 
paused  no*  and  ther.  t=  ask  Steve  about  his  new 
job,   how   many   cigars   he   smoked  in   a  day 
what  they  cost,  and  what  he  paid  for  his  finj 
clothes.     Presently   he   wanted   to   know  what 
they  called  his  boy,  on  the  road  -  conductor, 
brakesnan,  or  what  ? 

"They  call  me  the  General  Freight  Agent, 
father,"  said  Steve. 
"That 's  a  mighty  big  name,  Steve." 

"Ves,  father;  it's  rather  a  big  job,  loo,  for 
me." 

"Butyedon^tcioitall,Steve?     Vc  must  have 
hands  to  help  you  load  and  onload  ?  " 
"  Oh,  yes,  I  have  a  lot  of  help  !  " 
"  And  the  company  pays  'rm  all  ?  " 

"Yes" 

"  How     ,uch  do  they  paj  you,  Steve,  -  two 
dollars  a  day?" 


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"^•■o  •*  '*^mMm^mif,wi.'%mJt,^i^, 


.*>M  ,«^  ««<!»«»— it'ty/iVw  >'<tj^.»t- 


fl 


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■4' I 


m' 


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224 


"AR'    VE    WOTH  IT?" 


Steve  almost  strangled  on  a  piece  of  core, 
and  the  old  gentleman  saw  that  he  had  guessed 
too  low. 

"  Three  ?^'  he  ventured. 

"  More  than  that,  father." 

"  Ye  don't  mean  to  say  they  pay  ye  as  much 
asy?-e-v-e?" 

"Yes,  father;  more  than  twenty-five." 

'.  '  )ld  man  let  the  empty  hull  fall  between 
his  knees,  stared  at  his  boy,  and  whistled. 

"  Say,  Steve,"  he  asked  earnestly,  "  ar'  ye 
woth  it?" 


*/  .ji 


i(  m 


\\ 


*    »• 


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sed 


nch 


een 


IE 


t 

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u 


ye 


^  Roumanian  Romance 


»$ 


i.^ji 


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1 


"*MMi»j*,IMNf#. 


•fitwi^miariartir-'-vrs! 


♦****#»»^*V.V,dftMlV  ,!>»■*♦♦. 


•'•<*t~ii«fcrf<i.*^.«^»,«^.^ 


"i**»i*i 


i 


'I 


i 

;  • 


A   ROUMANIAN   ROMANCE 


THE  steel  trail  that  leads  out  of  the  Gare 
de  I'Est  in  Paris  cuts  a  corner  off  the 
German  Empire,  crosses  Austria,  and  enters 
Hungary,  forks  at  Budapest.  One  prong  reaches 
up  into  Roumania,  and  the  other,  crossing 
Servia  and  Bulgaria,  winds  round  the  Sea  of 
Marmora  and  ends  at  the  Golden  Horn.  At 
Budapest  lived  Joseph  and  Rudolph  Seibold ; 
fair-haired  youths  they  were,  whose  mother  had 
died  when  they  were  young,  and  whose  father,  a 
soldier,  had  been  killed  in  one  of  the  wars. 

When  the  boys  were  old  enough  to  travel 
they  went  west,  entered  the  railway  shops  at 
Vienna,  and  finally  became  locomotive  firemen 
on  an  Austrian  railway.  When  the  long  line 
was  opened  across  the  continent  they  returned 
to  Budapest  and  were  soon  promoted  to  be 
locomotive  engineers.     Rudolph  found  employ- 


1 

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.*  ^♦  »n.:^/^t,„M¥**>^:^'>")*>i)h'***-'*^tl''  m^tl0im0lliMtlfittlfti0ltt 


i'<<ni:  y*A  m*  ■ 


■  )'      M  , 


■  "  t 


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hi 


i  I 


Pi    ■ 


228 


A    ROUMA^^IAN  ROMANCE 


ment  on  the  Roumanian  railway,  while  his 
brother,  entering  the  service  of  the  long  line, 
became,  in  time,  one  of  the  drivers  of  the  fa- 
mous Orient  Express.  Up  in  Roumania,  at  the 
end  of  Rudolph's  run,  there  lived  a  poor  shep- 
herd whose  constant  and  sole  companion  was 
hifi  sixteen-year-old  daughter.  Their  flocks  fed 
upon  the  grassy  downs  hard  by  the  little  village 
where  Rudolph  used  to  turn  and  rest  his  iron 
horse  for  the  home  run  back  to  Budapest.  Oft, 
when  the  shepherd  had  gone  into  the  village  for 
supplies,  his  daughter,  with  the  faithful  dogs, 
kept  the  sheep.  It  was  only  when  she  was  thus 
alone  with  her  sheep  and  her  dogs  that  she 
dared  to  look  upon  the  fair-haired  engine  driver, 
for  her  father  loved  her  and  guarded  her  al- 
most to  the  point  of  cruelty.  As  the  days 
and  weeks  and  months  went  by,  she  became 
bolder,  and  sometimes  came  down  to  the  tele- 
graph poles  as  the  train  came  whistling  into 
town.  At  first  she  covered  her  pretty  ears 
with  her  sun-browned  hands  when  the  whistle 
screamed,  but  in  a  little  while  she  became  used 
to  it,  and  stood  there  smiling  and  unafraid.  In 
time  she  came  to  listen  for  the  train,  for  she 


I 


v 


i 


A    ROUMANIAN  ROMANCE 


23< 


knew  the  whistle  of  the  Hungarian.  Only  for  a 
moment  their  eyes  would  meet,  and  he  was 
gone  again.  One  day  she  threw  a  handful  of 
wild-flowers  up  into  the  cab,  and  when  Rudolph 
had  caught  some  of  them  and  smelled  the  per- 
fume of  the  fields,  he  longed  more  than  ever  to 
be  with  her.  Having  stabled  his  engine,  he  re- 
moved his  over-clothes,  washed  his  face  and 
hands,  put  on  his  coat,  and  with  a  boutonni^re 
made  from  the  wild-flowers  that  she  had  thrown 
to  him,  set  out  on  foot  to  find  the  winsome 
shepherdess.  Walking  seems  slow  to  the  driver 
of  an  express  engine,  but  Rudolph's  feet  were  as 
hght  as  his  heart,  and  in  a  short  while  he  came 
upon  the  girl,  sitting  on  the  bank  of  a  little 
stream,  cooling  her  feet  in  the  clear  water.  She 
was  frightened  at  first  and  started  to  run  away, 
but  he  called  to  her  and  begged  her  to  stay, 
and  she  waited  under  a  tree  until  he  came  up  to 
her.  He  held  out  his  hand,  but  she  would  not 
take  it,  for  she  was  sore  afraid,  now  that  he  was 
so  near.  How  the  poor  girl  reproached  herself 
for  having  been  so  bold !  Rudolph,  smiling, 
pointed  to  the  boutonniere  in  his  coat  lapel, 
but  she  only  blushed  and  hung  her  head.     After 


i 


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ill 
\ 


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m 

k 

-  : 

lit' 

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^«v«*b4A  «»^»vt<nimipjH[iianii(jm  »    '1*^' 


/M4-  jw»-.v<flei«*«.<%«t»t*i»»«»*<i>f<v«ni'y#«t  »«#..<«**i>~*Mk.-i»'»;;..^ 


M 


i' 


.  ! 


230 


A    ROUAfAXfAN  ROMANCE 


much  coaxing  he  persuaded  her  to  sit  down 
upon  the  grass  and  talk  with  him.  She  asked 
his  name.  "My  name  is  Rudolph,"  he  an- 
swered ;  '*  and  how  have  they  named  you  ?  " 

"  My  father  calls  me  Ilka,"  she  said,  raising 
her  eyes  to  his  and  dropping  them  instantly. 

"  And  how  does  your  mother  call  you  ?  " 

"  I  never  knew  my  mother,"  she  answered, 
her  eyes  still  on  the  ground. 

"  Nor  I  mine,"  said  Rudolph  ;  and  for  a  mo- 
ment he  met  her  glance  again,  and  in  that  glance 
each  seemed  to  say  to  the  other  "  We  ought  to 
be  friends." 

The  girl  had  been  looking  over  her  shoulder 
in  the  direction  of  the  village,  and  novv,  rising, 
she  told  Rudolph  that  he  must  go. 

"  And  would  you  send  me  away  so  soon  ? " 
pleaded  the  Hungarian.  "  I  'd  like  to  linger 
here  all  my  life." 

"  Your  life  will  be  short,"  said  the  girl,  glanc- 
ing up  the  glen,  "  if  you  stay  here ;  my  father 
will  be  coming  soon." 

"  And  what  will  he  say  to  me  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  Then  what  will  he  do  to  me?  " 


1?i 


«ll«'lllli    IIKI  .III     II 


ifmr-^  .11  iti  O  »«  <t..~'<»  tmm.'iK'Tm  »-!»«., -,m  w<j 


••»»•«.•**•     ■!•• 


A    ROUMAXIAI^  ROMANCE 


231 


"  He  '11  kill  you,'"  said  the  girl,  nodding  her 
head  slowly. 

The  Hungarian  whistled  softly  and  surveyed 
the  field.  "Good-bye,"  he  said,  holding  out  his 
hand.  The  girl  stepped  back,  and  one  of  the 
dogs  'sprang  between  her  and  the  engineer. 
She  s^joke  to  the  brute  and  he  went  back  to  his 
place. 

"Won't  you  shake  hands  with  me?"  he 
asked ;  and  the  girl,  still  trembling,  suffered  him 
to  take  her  hand. 

"  Good-bye,  Ilka,"  he  said.  "  I  '11  come  again 
soon." 

"  You  must  not  come  again,"  she  said,  look- 
ing full  in  his  face,  "  for  if  he  finds  you  here 
he  '11  kill  you." 

"  And  would  Ilka  be  grieved?" 

"Yes,  yes,''  she  said;  "please  go,  and  don't 
come  here  again." 

"  Good-bye,"  cried  Rudolph,  leaping  across 
the  little  rill,  and  hurrying  away  to  the  village. 

After  that;  when  the  shepherd  was  away, 
Rudolph  went  often  to  woo  the  darV  Rouma- 
nian, and  in  time  she  came  to  look  for  his  com- 
ing as  she  had  learned  to  listen  for  the  cry  of  his 


il 


V 

I 


If 


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1} 


h 


f**4%itKi\$rm^^  v*-* f/  V '  I  ^  i"'..  y 


»  '  f  r  r.^  ••  't- 1  -ri  f  -JTI  ^'  »■'  fi'**'  *^»-»T*-' 


•  "S  I'  f^  .•■"   >««<»«•>.  »-»,«.*■, 


'i,; 


1^'' 


232 


A    ROUMANIAN  ROMANCE 


Steed.  By  keeping  carefully  off  the  old  man's 
time  Rudolph  had  avoided  a  collision,  the  re- 
sult of  which  had  been  guessed  at  by  the  shep- 
herdess upon  the  occasion  of  their  first  meeting. 
As  fortune-tellers  the  Roumanian  maidens  were 
not  slow,  so  the  young  man  was  willing  to  take 
her  word  for  it  that  the  gentle  shepherd  would 
cut  off  his  career  the  moment  he  found  hirr 
singing  love  songs  to  the  shepherdess.  Aiab, 
there  are  always  meddlers  in  every  community, 
and  it  fell  out  that  a  jealous  suitor  warned  the 
shepherd  of  his  daughter's  danger.  That 's  how 
it  happened  that  he  failed  to  visit  the  village  or  ^ 
day  when  his  daughter  thought  he  had  gone, 
was  one  of  those  glorious  days  that  come  along 
in  the  wake  of  summer. 

Ilka  had  been  bathing  her  brown  feet  and 
washing  her  hair  in  tl-e  little  brook ;  and  when 
♦he  whistle  came  it  found  her  seated  upon  the 
bank,  drying  her  midnight  tresses  in  the  morning 
sun.  She  was  still  sitting  thus,  with  her  hair 
about  her  face  when  Rudolph  came,  pulled  it 
back,  and  kissed  her  on  the  mouth.  It  surprised 
her  a  little,  but  she  was  a  woman  and  this  was 
her  lover.     Rudolph  thought  he  heard  the  grass 


A    ROUMANIAN  ROMANCE 


233 


m 


lir 
it 


las 

Iss 


rustle,  and  glancing  round  saw  the  shepherd 
bearing  down  upon  them,  followed  closely  by  a 
long,  hungry-looking  man  with  a  very  dark  face. 
As  the  men  came  running  toward  the  lovers 
they  each  drew  a  long  knife,  and  when  the  giri 
saw  their  danger  she  threw  her  arms  about  the 
Hungarian's  neck,  and  put  herself  between  him 
and  her  irate  sire.  Seeing  now  that  the  girl 
loved  the  engineer,  the  shepherd  halted,  but 
the  jealous  Gipsy  swerved  round  and  made  a 
ilash  at  the  man  who  had  won  the  heart  of  the 
shepherdess.  The  girl  still  kept  her  place,  and 
when  the  man  struck  at  Rudolph  the  latter 
seized  his  wrist  and  dealt  him  a  heavy  blow 
under  the  left  ear  that  put  him  out  of  the  con- 
test for  a  whole  minute.  The  shepherd  sheathed 
his  knife  now  and  ordered  his  daughter  to  the 
hut.  She  hesitated,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
and  her  father  stamped  his  foot.  Turning  to 
the  engineer  she  gave  him  both  her  hands  and 
whispered  to  him  to  go.  As  the  Gipsy  struggled 
to  his  feet  the  girl  picked  up  the  knife  that  he 
had  dropped  and  Rudolph  walked  down  the 
hill,  swung  himself  into  the  way-car  of  a  passing 
freight  train,  and  rode  back  to  the  village. 


;j 


,1 


M 


^•;u 


I  ■' 


,  Ai»«ri»»' 


r<**»»»v«-f,- 


•"J 


■»r««MH«i'»»»V»«»**>w»'»-»'«-«r-«»»«*»-*»«»"r«'*''«>ti'"  •*■  -  • 


•'.^'v*v  l*-*l*  «^  rt--^-^-^  'm.  0m  * 


ft 

i 


»* 

sv 


'  i   'i't 


234 


A    ROUMANIAN  RO STANCE 


That  night  the  shepherd  packed  his  traps, 
and  on  the  following  day  at  sunrise  had,  with 
the  help  of  the  gaunt  Gipsy,  completed  arrange- 
ments for  a  long  journey.  Not  a  vvord  had 
passed  between  the  shepherd  and  his  daughter 
since  he  ordered  her  to  the  hut,  but  now  he 
must  speak  to  her.  He  had  himself  bundled 
up  her  scanty  wardrobe,  and  now  he  ordered 
her  to  prepare  to  travel. 

"  Where  are  we  going?  "  asked  the  girl. 

"  Away,"  said  the  shepherd.  "This  day  you 
must  choose  between  me  and  the  white-skinned 
rider  of  the  iron  horse." 

The  girl  glanced  at  the  Gipsy,  whom  she  hated 
now,  and  who  seemed  to  be  prepared  to  go  with 
them.  About  the  only  thing  her  father  had 
taught  her  was  obedience.  She  felt  that  she 
must  follow  him. 

"  Then  you  must  choose  between  me  and 
him,"  said  the  girl,  pointing  to  the  Gipsy. 

"  He  goes  to  help  with  the  sheep,"  said  the 
shepherd. 

"  I'll  mind  the  sheep,"  she  answered,  "  but  I 
will  not  go  unless  he  remains  here." 

The  shepherd  saw  that  she  was  desperately  in 


*    ^.^  ft,,mwiit,    f  - 


■    «**v*-*»--^-..*« 


>v| 


A   POUMA.VIAN  ROMANCE 


235 


the 


lUt  I 


in 


earnest,  and  ordered  the  Gipsy,  whom  he  also 
disliked,  to  go  back  to  the  village. 

Slowly  and  sadly  the  shepherd  led  the  belled 
and  freighted  donkey  r  cross  the  hills,  followed 
by  the  sheep  that  were  driven  by  the  dogs  under 
the  direction  of  the  heavy-hearted  shepherdess. 
From  the  top  of  a  far-off  hill  she  took  a  last 
long  look  at  the  poor  little  village,  the  only  city 
her  life  had  known.  There  lay  a  stretch  of  the 
iron  road  along  which  her  lover  would  soon  pass 
upon  his  wondrous  steed. 

How  she  longed  to  see  him  once  more,  to 
tell  him  how  she  loved  him,  for  she  had  not  a 
doubt  that  he  loved  her.  Her  heart  was  heavy, 
and  her  feet  'jeemed  to  be  made  of  lead,  but 
she  trudged  on  in  silence.  For  days  and  weeks 
they  crawled  southward,  until  finally  they  came 
to  a  broad  valley,  through  which  swept  a  beauti- 
ful river,  whose  waters  were  as  blue  as  Rudolph's 
eyes. 

*'  Shall  we  rest  here  and  make  a  new  home  in 
this  beautiful  vale?  "  asked  the  shepherd. 

"  If  it  please  you,  father,"  said  the  girl,  sigh- 
ing, and  gazing  into  the  stream. 

So  they  made  a  hut  near  the  river,  and  the 


I 


.f'f 


i 


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M 


...  f:  :J 


W.' 


r 


pi 


I    il! 


'  f 


^ 


1    ' 


236 


A   ROUMANIAN  ROMANCE 


shepherd,  having  seen  smoke  down  the  valley, 
set  out  to  find  the  village  or  settlement.  Two 
hours'  walk  brought  him  to  Belgrade,  the  capital 
of  Servia,  where  he  sold  the  two  sheep  which  he 
had  taken  with  him,  and  with  the  money  bought 
bread  and  honey  and  dried  fish. 

When  Rudolph  came  whistling  down  the 
Roumanian  railway  on  the  day  following  the 
scene  at  the  shepherd's  ranch,  he  was  surprised 
at  the  deserted  appearance  of  the  place.  An 
hour  later  he  pushed  the  door  of  the  hut  open, 
and  found  it  empty.  A  rat  ran  across  the  dirt 
floor  as  he  entered.  He  thought  they  must 
have  moved  into  the  village  and  turned  in 
that  direction.  He  met  the  hungry  Gipsy  who 
had  attempted  to  murder  him  the  day  before. 
The  Gipsy  laughed  and  taunted  the  Hungarian 
until  the  latter  knocked  him  down  and  kicked 
him. 

Rudolph  searched  the  village  until  leaving 
time,  but  could  find  no  trace  of  the  shepherd  or 
his  daughter. 

Every  day  he  would  go  to  the  hut  only  to  find 
the  place  still  empty  and  more  rats  in  the  house. 


t;^l 


A    ROUMANIAN  ROMANCE 


237 


He  inquired  at  the  little  shop  in  the  town  where 
he  had  seen  the  man  buying  supplies,  but  the 
shopkeeper  knew  nothing  of  the  whereabouts  of 
the  shepherd.  Even  the  ugly  Gipsy  had  disap- 
peared, and  Rudolph  grew  despondent.  The 
sweet,  innocent  face  of  the  shepherdess,  with 
her  deep  dark  eyes,  haunted  him  day  and  night. 
He  could  not  if  he  would,  and  would  not  if  he 
could,  forget  the  touch  of  her  warm,  ripe  lips, 
and  he  longed  to  see  her  again.  Lots  of  girls 
there  were  in  Budapest;  beautiful  girls  with 
sunny  hair  and  eyes  blue  and  deep  as  the 
Danube ;  but  his  heart  had  gone  out  to  the 
guileless  nomadic  maiden,  and  to  her  only. 

When  the  shepherd  and  his  daughter  and  the 
dogs  had  been  in  their  n*.  '^ome  for  two  days, 
Ilka  set  out  to  visit  the  village,  ^^''^en  she  was 
near  to  the  town  she  heard  the  roar  of  a  railwa\ 
train  and  the  whistle  of  a  locomotive.  Her 
heart  beat  wildly,  for,  so  far  as  she  knew,  there 
was  only  one  railroad  on  earih.  There  might 
be  many  engines,  but  only  one  engineer  whose 
horse  was  hitched  to  painted  cars,  and  thes«* 
cars  were  painted.     As  the  engine  swept  round 


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238 


A    ROUMANIAN  ROMANCE 


a  long  curve  and  slowed  down  for  a  bad  bridge, 
the  girl  stood  waiting  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
engineer. 

"  Ho !  my  pretty  shepherdess,"  cried  the 
driver,  leaning  far  out  of  his  window.  The  girl, 
speechless  with  joy  and  surprise,  gazed  up  at  the 
engineer,  and  as  he  opened  the  throttle  and 
steamed  ahead  put  up  her  hands  beseechingly, 
imploring  him  to  stop  and  take  her  upori  h": 
wonderful  steed  and  carry  her  away. 

"What  a  foolish  maiden,"  said  the  engineer, 
after  he  had  thrown  a  kiss  to  her,  "and  how 
pretty !  " 

Ilka  went  not  to  the  to\7n,  but,  with  a  heavy 
heart,  returned  to  her  father  m  the  little  hut  they 
called  their  home.  At  last  she  had  found  him 
and  he  had  only  smiled,  tossed  a  kiss  to  her, 
and  rode  away.  Ah !  could  it  be  that  he  did 
not  love  her  after  all?  She  would  see.  She 
would  go  down  to  the  track  again,  and  if  he 
would  not  stop  and  take  her  away  she  would 
cast  herself  beneath  the  wheels  of  the  great 
machine  and  end  her  life.  Every  day  she  would 
go  down  to  the  railway  and  watch  for  the  train, 
but  the  Orient  Express  does  not  run  hourly  or 


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A    ROUMANIAN  ROMANCE 


239 


or 


even  daily,  but  only  twice  a  week.  It  was  the 
third  day  when  she  heard  the  whistle,  and  in  a 
little  while  the  train  came  slowly  round  the 
curve.  Again  the  engineer  leaned  from  his  cab 
and  smiled.  She  put  up  hei  hands,  but  he 
did  not  stop,  and  now  she  threw  herself  in 
front  of  the  engine.  P'ortunately  for  her, 
these  far  Eastern  railways  use  American  lo- 
comotives with  pilots,  —  cow-catchers,  as  they 
are  vulgarly  called,  —  and  she  was  lifted  from 
the  rail  and  thrown  out  upon  the  plain.  The 
driver  stopped  the  train  and  huriied  back  to 
where  the  shepherdess  lay  unconscious  upon 
the  ground.  She  was  carried  into  the  train  and 
placed  upon  a  berth  in  one  of  the  Mann  cars, 
but  all  efforts  to  revive  her  failed.  The  train 
was  an  important  one,  and  had  been  nearly 
an  hour  late  when  the  shepherdess  flagged  it. 
They  could  not  think  of  backing  up  to  Belgrade 
for  a  poor  girl  who  might,  even  then,  be  dead  ; 
they  could  not  leave  a  human  being  to  lie  un- 
conscious upon  the  desc  'ate  plain ;  so  the  en- 
gineer, having  taken  a  long  look  at  the  quiet 
face,  hurried  forward,  mounted  his  engine,  and 
steamed  away. 


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240 


-4    ROUMANIAN  ROMANCE 


When  the  hostlers  had  taken  charge  of  the 
engine  at  Budapest  the  engineer  went  back  to 
the  train  to  look  after  the  girl.  She  was  his  by 
right  of  discovery,  and  the  conductor  was  willing 
to  hive  her  off  his  hands.  During  the  voyage 
from  Belgrade  to  Budapest  the  girl  had  scarcely 
moved.  She  had  opened  her  eyes  occasionally, 
when  the  whistle  blew,  but  had  shown  no  dis- 
position to  get  up.  The  engineer  carried  her 
to  a  cab  and  drove  with  her  to  the  house  of  a 
widowed  uunt  that  stood  at  the  far  end  of  the 
long  tunnel  that  pierces  the  high  hill  upon  which 
stands  the  old  king's  palace,  beyond  the  Dan- 
ube. Here  the  unfortunate  girl  had  all  the  care 
and  comforts  that  civilized  sick  people  usually 
receive. 

At  the  end  of  a  week,  when  Joseph  Seibold 
had  gone  from  Budapest  to  Belgrade,  then  from 
Belgrade  back  to  Budapest  again,  he  called  to 
see  the  shepherdess.  His  aunt  had  called  a 
doctor,  who  had  visited  the  girl  every  day.  She 
was  now  in  a  high  fever,  and  Joseph  could  not  see 
her.  "  If  she  is  not  in  her  right  mind,"  argued 
Joseph,  "  it  will  do  no  harm  for  me  to  see  her," 
and  his  aunt  allowed  him  to  look  in.     She  was 


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A    ROUMAXIAN  ROMANCE 


241 


prettier,  Josepli  thought,  than  ever,  and  while 
he  stood  looking  at  her  she  opened  her  eyes 
and  stared  at  him.  The  good  aunt  pushed 
the  young  man  back,  and  as  he  turned  to  go 
the  girl,  seeming  to  regain  consciousner.s  for  the 
moment,  sat  up  in  bed  and  stretched  out  her 
arms  imploringly.  When  he  had  passed  out  of 
the  room,  she  sank  back  npon  the  couch  and 
closed  her  eyes  again. 

When  Joseph  returned  ^o  his  lodgings,  he 
found  his  brother  Rudolph  theic,  and  related  to 
him  all  that  had  happened,  assuring  him  that  his 
little  shepherdess  was  one  of  the  loveliest  flowers 
of  Servia. 

Rudolph,  being  a  quiet  man,  had  kept  his 
secret  and  hugged  his  sorrow  to  himself  but 
now,  as  Joseph  proceeded  to  describe  the  girl 
and  told  how  she  seemed  to  love  him  at  Srst 
sight,  and  how  she  had  held  up  her  hands  to 
him  like  a  baby  who  wants  to  be  taken,  Rudolph 
glared  at  him  like  a  madman.  Finally,  when 
he  told  how  she  had  thrown  herself  beneath  the 
engine,  for  very  love  of  him,  preferring  death  in 
his  presence  to  life  in  his  absence,  the  young 
driver  smiled  the  smile  of  a  man  who  has  made 

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242 


A    HOI/MAN/ AN  ROMANCE 


a  hit  and  feels  it.  "  And  when  she  is  well,"  he 
concluded  triumphantly,  "  we  shall  be  married, 
and  you  — "  He  saw  the  wild  look  in  his 
brother's  eyes  and  stopped  short. 

"  Come,"  said  Rudolph,  rising,  "  let  us  go  to 
the  girl." 

"  But  we  can't  see  her  —  she's  very  ill,"  said 
Joseph. 

Rudolph  put  on  his  cap  ar.d  Joseph  followed 
him  over  the  long  bridge  and  through  the  tun- 
nel, to  the  litde  cottage  where  the  good  aunt 
lived. 

Rudolph  would  not  wait  to  be  shown  in,  but 
even  while  his  aunt  protested  pushed  the  door 
open  and  looked  into  the  sick  room.  The  kind 
woman  had  put  a  soft  wrapper  of  a  warm  red 
color  upon  the  patient,  and  now  as  Rudolph's 
eyes  rested  upon  her  sleeping  face  she  seemed  a 
thousand  times  prettier  than  ever  before.  The 
sleeper  stirred  and  the  young  men  withdrew. 
Rudolph  sank  into  a  chair  and  wept  like  a 
woman. 

The  others  were  bewildered  at  his  strange 
behavior,  and  when  he  could  talk  they  asked 
the   cause   of    his    grief.      And   then   he   told 


—  ^^'^.u^etvi.^^if^    .  "*?*  .*;.ii,rt>»*i'iiii|wi>>iili;i»'i<^ii5i»i»*yyi-*"''*-''^*<"'"'-^^^  ' 


A    ROUMANIAN  ROMANCE 


243 


them  the  story  of  his  acquaintance  witli  tlie 
shepherdess  :  how  at  last  he  had  come  to  love 
her,  and  that  she  seemed  to  love  him.  Her 
father,  it  now  seemed  to  Rudolph,  had  taken 
her  away  to  keep  the  lovers  apart,  and  at  sight 
of  Joseph  she  had  mistaken  him  for  her  long 
lost  lover.  "  But,  after  all,"  said  Rudolph,  "  it  is 
Joseph  who  has  found  her  and  saved  her  life. 
He  loves  her  too,  and  if  she  loves  him  I  must 
go  far  away,  for  I  could  not  live  and  see  them 
together." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Joseph,  magnanimously,  for 
his  love  had  not  burned  into  his  soul  as  Ru- 
dolph's had  burned  into  his,  "  you  must  stay." 

The  good  aunt,  who  had  also  been  weeping, 
now  suggested  that  the  twin  brothers,  who  loved 
each  other  and  had  been  together  all  their  lives, 
leave  the  choice  of  a  husband  wholly  to  the 
shepherdess.  "  Her  woman's  heart  will  tell  her 
and  her  woman's  instinct  will  guide  her  to  the 
man  she  really  loves." 

She  made  them  both  promise  to  remain  away 
from  the  cottage  until  the  girl  had  regained  her 
health,  when  she  would  notify  them  and  fix  a 
day  for  the  final  drawing.     It  was  nearly  two 


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244 


A    ROUMANIAN  ROMANCE 


months  later  when  the  two  brotliers  crossed 
over  to  the  Palace  side  of  the  river  to  meet  the 
shepherdess.  The  summer  had  passed  away, 
and  dead  leaves  were  drifting  dow  upon  the 
Danube,  whose  beautiful  blue  waters  slipped 
noiselessly  beneath  the  bridge.  The  widowed 
aunt  had  talked  a  great  deal  to  the  girl  about 
the  engineer,  but  she  was  extremely  reticent. 
"  Would  you  know  him  if  you  saw  him  in  a  great 
crowd  of  men?  "  asked  her  hostess  of  the  shep- 
herdess one  day,  after  the  latter  had  vaguely 
acknowledged  that  she  had  a  lover  somewhere. 

The  girl  smiled  as  she  replied  by  asking  an- 
other question :  "  Would  the  king  know  his 
palace  from  the  other  houses?" 

Rudolph  and  Joseph,  dressed  precisely  alike, 
sat  in  a  sheltered  place  in  the  garden,  and  when 
their  aunt  and  the  shepherdess  had  arrived  at  a 
point  directly  opposite  them  the  elder  woman 
paused,  and,  turning  toward  the  two  men,  said  : 

"  Ilka,  one  of  these  men  is  your  lost  lover ; 
can  you  tell  which  is  he  ?  " 

The  two  men  left  the  bench  and  advanced 
with  outstretched  arms.  The  girl,  bewildered 
and  half  afraid,  clung  to  the  woman  at  her  side. 


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A   ROUMANIAN  ROMANCE 


245 


Neither  of  the  men  were  to  speak,  and  both 
were  silent. 

"  Choose  you/^  said  the  woman ;  "  be  not 
afraid." 

The  girl  glanced  from  one  face  to  the  other 
for  a  moment  and  then  cried,  "Rudolph! 
Rudolph ! "  as  she  threw  herself  into  his  open 
arms. 

"  Ilka !  Ilka  !  My  lost  Ilka  !  "  said  Rudolph, 
holding  her  to  his  breast ;  and  Joseph  turned 
away. 


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OPENING   OF    THE  ALPINE    TUNNEL 


^HE  highest  point  reached  by  any  railway 
(not  a  cogvvay)  in  the  Rocky  Mountains 

IS  at  Alpine  Pass,  on  the  Denver,  Leadville  and 
Gunnison,  a  part  of  the  Colorado  Southern 
system.  Marshall  Pass,  on  the  Rio  Grande,  is 
10,050  feet,  Tennessee  Pass  1 1,000 ;  but  Gov- 
ernor Evens,  who  built  the  road  over  Alpine 
Pass,  climbed  up  and  up  until  he  reached  timber 
Ime,  and  then,  diving  under  the  eternal  snow,  he 
tunnelled  through  the  top  of  the  towering  range 
and  came  out  on  the  Pacific  Slope. 

It  cost  a  mountain  of  money  to  make  the 
grade  and  bore  the  big  hole  in  the  hill,  but  the 
Gunnison  country  at  that  time  was  attracting 
the  attention  of  the  mining  world,  and  the  cost 
of  the  railway  was  not  taken  seriously  into  con- 
sideration  so  long  as  it  tapped  the  Gunnison. 

The   timbering,   we   are   told,    in   this   great 
tunnel  came  from  the  red-wood  forests  of  Cali- 


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250     OPENING  OF  THE  ALPINE   TUNNEL 

fornia,  and  had  to  be  hauled  up  to  the  top  of  the 
range  on  the  backs  of  burros.  Finally  the  road 
was  completed,  but  the  Gunnison  boom  was 
already  dying ;  the  winter  came  on  and  the  new 
railway  was  closed  up,  for  no  amount  of  "  buck- 
ing" with  pilot  ploughs  could  keep  the  heavy 
drifts  from  the  deep  cuts.  In  five  years  the 
road  was  almost  entirely  abandoned.  A  few 
years  ago,  when,  through  the  breaking  up  of  the 
Union  Pacific  system,  the  narrow  gauge  came 
back  to  the  original  owners,  the  ambitious  man- 
ager undertook  to  reopen  the  railway  over  Alpine 
Pass.  It  was  a  big  undertaking.  The  snow  near 
the  tunnel  had  been  there  for  many  months, 
some  of  it  for  years,  and  when  June  came  you 
might  still  walk  over  the  top  of  six  feet  of  hard 
snow  where  the  road  lay.  It  was  a  novel  sight 
to  see  three  or  four  big  locomotives  pushing  a 
rotary  snow-plough  through  the  white  waste,  for 
only  the  furrow  in  the  forest  showed  where  the 
road  wound  away  up  among  the  high  hills. 
Where  the  mountain-side  was  steep  the  solid 
stream  of  snow,  as  big  round  as  the  wheel  of  a 
bicycle,  shot  up  from  the  snow  machine,  clear 
over  the  top  of  the  telegraph  poles,  and  went 


OPENING  OF  THE  ALPINE    TUNNEL      25  I 


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crashing  down  through  tall  spruce  and  stately 
pine,  stripping  them  of  their  branches,  until  the 
whole  hillside  was  carpeted  with  the  green 
boughs  that  had  been  torn  from  the  trees. 
After  many  days  of  constant  and  persistent 
pounding  they  reached  the  tunnel,  and  found 
It  filled  up  solid  with  snow  and  ice. 

It  was  hke  boring  a  new  tunnel,  almost,  but 
they  worked  away  until  they  were  more  than 
half-way  through,  and  then  they  began  to  have 
trouble.  There  were  no  chimneys,  or  shafts 
for  the  bad  air  to  escape  through,  and  when  they 
began  to  use  locomotives  to  haul  the  snow  out  the 
coal  gas  from  the  engines  made  it  almost  unsafe 
for  men  to  work  there. 


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Already  the  literary  bureau  of  the  passenger 
department  was  trying  (but  failing,  for  no  man 
could  do  it)  to  paint  pictures  of  the  wonderful 
scenery  of  Alpine  Pass.  And  it  is  wonderful ; 
there  is  nothing  like  it.  But  all  the  grandeur  of 
all  the  world  will  not  suffice  to  hold  men  where 
they  can  feel  upon  their  throats  the  cold  fingers 
of  the  grim  reaper,  and  every  day  the  force 
decreased.    Dozens  of  hves  had  been  lost  in 


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252      OPENING  OP   THE  ALPINE    TUNNEL 


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the  building  of  the  tunnel.  The  place  when 
full  of  black  smoke  seemed  to  the  workmen  to 
be  alive  with  the  ghosts  of  men  who  had  met 
death  there. 

Every  night  now  the  men  rehearsed  the  old 
stories  of  the  building  of  the  great  tunnel  at  the 
boarding  train  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  Every  day 
new  men  went  up  to  the  pass,  and  old  men  with 
time  checks  tramped  down  the  Arkansas.  The  ice 
near  the  west  end  of  the  tunnel  became  so  hard 
that  it  had  to  be  blasted  out,  and  two  men  were 
killed  at  blasting.  Expert  miners  were  brought 
down  f-^m  Leadville,  but  they  smelled  death  in 
the  damp  of  the  place  and  in  the  breath  of  the 
blind  steed  that  ""^s  ever  pufifing  and  snorting 
in  and  out.  The  noise  and  smoke  of  the  blast- 
ing added  to  the  other  perils  of  the  place,  and 
now  the  men  worked  with  one  eye  on  the  exit 
or  in  the  direction  of  the  open  end  of  the  tunnel. 
If  the  engine  slipped  or  snorted  the  men  would 
start,  ready  to  stampede  like  a  herd  of  Texas 
steers.  It  was  an  awful  strain  upon  the  nerves 
of  men  to  work  in  that  way  from  day  to  day, 
and  then  add  to  the  anxiety  by  rehearsing  their 
experiences  in  the  boarding  cars  at  night.     One 


;/ 


OPENING  OF  THE  ALPINE    TUNNEL       253 


day  the  engineer  became  excited,  blew  iiis  whistle, 
and  backed  away  hurriedly,  killing  or  crippling  a 
half  dozen  men. 

Things  went  so  badly  that  the  general  man- 
ager took  his  private  car  and  camped  on  a  spur 
near  the  tunnel  to  help  to  encourage  the  work- 
men.    Great  preparations  had  been  made  for  a 
grand  excursion  over  the  pass  on  the  Fourth  of 
July.     It  was  now  the  last  week  of  June,  and 
the  road   not   yet   opened.     Down   at    Denver 
they  were  constructing  observation  cars  to  carry 
the  people   through  the  new  wonderland.     An 
especially  elaborate  carriage  had  been  made  for 
the  accommodation   of  the   Governor  and   his 
staff. 

But  there  came  a  day  up  there  when  the 
Clouds  lay  heavy  upon  the  hills,  and  there  was 
not  a  breath  of  air  stirring.  Fortunately  for  the 
workmen,  they  had  broken  a  hoie  through  the 
ice  at  the  far  end  of  the  tunnel,  and  now, 
encouraged  by  the  fresh  air  and  another  exit, 
worked  with  a  will  to  clear  the  place.  The 
engine  went  snorting  in  and  out,  with  three 
flat  cars  in  front  of  her,  the  miners  kept  blast- 
ing, and  the  men  shovelling.    It  was  nearly  noon. 


■ 

■M  t 

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S'*ii5?Mi«i#^ 


'^JiMEWrW^ 


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I   :.> 


*« 


254      OPENING  OF  THE  ALPINE    TUNNEL 

The  tunnel,  in  spite  of  the  new  opening,  gradu- 
ally filled  with  power-smoke  and  coal  gas.  The 
men  working  near  the  ground,  and  not  far  from 
the  entrance,  had  felt  no  inconvenience.  The 
fireman  of  the  locomotive  had  gone  out  to  the 
front  end  of  the  engine  to  fix  a  signal  lamp, 
when  of  a  sudden  he  was  overcome,  and  fell 
among  the  men,  who  hastily  carried  him  to  the 
narrow  doorway  and  out  into  the  open  air. 

Other  workmen  seeing  this,  stampeded  and 
saved  their  lives.  Meanwhile  the  heavy  cloud 
lay  like  a  wet  blanket  over  the  mouth  of  the  tun- 
nel, held  the  poisonous  air  in  and  kept  the  fresh 
air  out.  Noticing  the  confusion  of  the  work- 
men, the  engineer  leaned  far  out  of  his  window 
and  tried  to  make  out  in  the  smoke  and  dark- 
ness what  had  happened. 

He  was  a  new  man  in  the  tunnel,  the  old 
engineer  having  been  suspended  pending  an 
investigation  of  his  case.  Suddenly  he  felt  a 
strange  sensation.  In  another  second  he  real- 
ized that  he  was  alone  in  the  great  tunnel  among 
the  ghosts  of  the  dead.  He  had  strength  and 
presence  of  mind  enough  to  open  the  throttle, 
the  wheels  began  to  revolve,  —  under  the  engine 


\.)i\ 


OPSmNG  OF  THE  ALPINE   TUNNEL      255 

and  in  his  head,- he  fell  across  the  arm  rest,  and 
then  the  world  ivas  all  dark  and  dead. 

A  moment  later  the  general  manager,  looking 
from  the  window  of  his  car,  saw  the  work  train 
commg  out  of  the  tunnel  like  a  ball  out  of  a 
cannon,  and  saw  the  limp  form  of  the  driver 
hangmg  from    the   window   as  the  engine,  still 
wide  open,  rushed  down  the  steep  grade.     At 
a  curve  in    the   road  the   engine  jumped   the 
track  and  went  tearing  down  the  mountain-side, 
overturning  great  rocks  and  crushing  tall  trees 
down  as  though  they  had  been  weeds. 

The  sudden  lurch  of  the  locomotive  threw 
the  driver  from  the  window  and  left  him  unhurt 
upon  the  snow.  The  cool  air  soon  revived  him, 
and  when  the  general  manager  came  to  look  for 
h.m  he  found  the  driver  sitting  on  the  snow- 
bank without  a  scratch,  but  very  pale  and 
perspiring,  cold,  like  one  who  has  been  very 
near  to  death.  ' 


i:  ,  II 


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ON  THE  BLACK-LIST 


ii 


"  J^EDMOND,  dear,"  said  Mn.  Smith,  "your 
*^     mother  is  dying." 

The  boy  looked  up,  bewildered,  but  showed 
■ttle  surpnse.     His  father  had  died  four  v  Ir 
ago   when  he  was  barely  ten,  and  now  i,  seemed 

r::^:::^---a.or't:b: 

uncle     She  h  T  """""'  °^  '^  '"^'""-'y 


I 


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4! 


26o 


ON   THE   BLACK-LIST 


^.\      ' 


If 


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the  man  and  the  boy  appeared  to  misunder- 
stand each  other.  In  a  little  while  the  boy 
found  the  plough  handles  in  his  hands,  his  feet 
in  a  furrow,  and  he  followed  the  plough  and  the 
team  that  was  following  the  hired  man  across 
the  field.  The  boy  went  on  mechanically, 
never  taking  the  least  interest  in  the  work.  It 
was  not  his  work,  and  he  wondered  how  long 
he  would  be  kept  at  it. 

He  was  still  wondering,  when  one  day  he  saw 
a  snowflake  flying  across  the  brown  field,  when 
the  seed  had  been  sown  for  another  crop. 
When  it  was  real  winter  he  went  to  school,  and 
was  far  more  interested  in  his  books  than  he 
had  been  in  the  field.  His  mother,  having 
warning  of  what  was  coming,  had  spent  all  her 
leisure  hours  cramming  the  boy's  head  with 
book  stuff,  and  he  had  taken  it  well. 

Of  an  evening  when  he  came  home  from 
school  he  usually  found  the  local  freight  crew 
doing  way-work  at  the  mill  switch,  and  he  took 
great  interest  in  the  trainmen  and  what  they  did. 

The  whistle  of  a  locomotive  always  attracted 
his  attention.  He  was  never  too  busy  at  work 
or  at  play  to  stop  and  look  at  the  passing  train. 


rn 


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O.W    THE   black-list 


261 


:revv 
took 

did. 
Icted 

rork 


Irain. 


From  the  field  the  boy  saw  the  brakemen 
dangling  their  feet  from  the  tops  of  box-cars  as 
the  long  freight  train  toiled  up  a  heavy  grade. 

One  day  he  went  over  to  the  fence  and  saw 
a  new  man  open  the  switch,  and  heard  him 
swear  at  the  engineer,  who  did  n't  answer  back. 
The  brakeman  was  a  small,  young  man,  under  a 
cream-colored  linen  cap.  He  was  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, and  from  his  throat  a  thin  silk  necktie 
fluttered  in  the  summer  breeze.  He  wore  a 
vest,  to  be  sure,  for  he  had  to  have  its  pockets 
to  hold  his  big  blue  lead-pencil,  his  rabbit's 
foot,  comb,  and  tooth-brush.  The  black  and 
green  shirt  he  wore  fairly  screamed  when  he 
waved  his  arms  in  the  sunlight. 

The  Smith  boy  had  never  seen  mortal  so 
mighty.  With  the  small  crook  of  his  arm  he 
could  stop  the  big  locomotive,  and  start  it  again 
with  as  little  effort.  He  was  awful,  and  yet  the 
boy  was  not  afraid.  He  was  fascinated,  and, 
craving  a  closer  view,  he  hurriedly  filled  his  hat 
with  ripe  peaches  and  went  over  the  fence. 
The  brakeman  accepted  the  fruit  as  a  matter  of 
course.  "  Be  back  here  to-mor',  two- eighteen, 
sonny  ;  have  a  nice,  cool  melon  for  me  —  see  ?  " 


1 


V 


M 


I  I 


\ 


K 


■^I- 


262 


Oy   THE   BLACK-LIST 


It 


I',*-    ')■» 


The  Smith  boy  made  no  answer.  He  won- 
dered if  any  one  would  have  the  moral  courage 
to  answer  this  man.  He  was  sure  the  engineer 
had  not,  and  he  had  always  considered  the 
driver  of  a  locomotive  a  great  man. 

When  the  engine  came  out  it  waited  respect- 
fully for  the  proprietor  of  the  road,  who  locked 
the  switch  up  for  the  main  line  and  then,  hold- 
ing his  cap  full  of  peaches  under  one  arm,  leaped 
lightly  upon  the  pilot  and  rode  proudly  away. 

The  next  day  when  the  local  stopped  to  pick 
up  the  car  that  liad  been  loaded  with  floui,  the 
farmer's  boy  had  a  big  watermelon  and  two 
cantaloupes  hid  in  the  weeds  near  the  switch. 
This  time  the  brake  man  did  not  go  on  the 
engine  when  it  backed  away.  To  the  amaze- 
ment of  the  boy  the  proprietor  of  the  road  stood 
at  the  switch  and  allowed  the  train  to  roll  by 
him.  When  the  caboose  had  come  up  to  the 
switch,  the  brakeman,  scowling,  held  an  arm 
straight  out  and  the  whole  train  stopped, 
**  Come,  hurry  !  "  said  he.  "  Hustle  yer  pump- 
kins aboard."  '''he  bewildered  boy  hurriedly 
lifted  the  big  watermelon  and  rolled  it  into  the 
door  of  the  way-car ;  the  arm  of  the  great  man 


!•   £ 


-'.■">  .'t>t '  '1..'- 


•  *-l    '      «.*•>    »»-.-     ^.r=.^m  .. 


ON   THE  BLACK-LIST 


263 


by 
the 


went  up  and  wriggled,  while  down  the  long 
train  the  bumping  .sound  of  the  jerking  cars 
came  nearer  and  nearer.  Now,  as  the  boy 
threw  the  last  melon  into  the  caboose,  it  started 
forward  with  a  bound,  but  the  second  it  leaped, 
the  brakeman  had  swung  himself  up,  and  now, 
standing  wide-legged,  he  looked  down  upon  the 
freckled  face  of  the  boy  and  said,  almost  pleas- 
antly, ''  S'  lopg,  sonny.  ' 

That  evening,  when  Redmond  and  the  hired 
man  stabled  the  horses,  had  supper,  carried 
water  from  the  well  to  the  calves  in  the  cow 
pasture,  and  swill  to  the  swine  in  the  clover 
field,  and  were  chopping  wood  in  the  twilight 
of  a  sixteen-hour  work  day,  so  as  not  to  delay 
breakfast  on  the  following  morning,  they  heard 
a  locomotive  scream  down  behind  the  orchard. 
The  boy  looked  up  in  time  to  see  the  overland 
flyer  on  the  Sunrise  Route  flit  by.  Some  boys, 
barefooted  and  free,  passed  down  the  road  from 
the  ball  ground  and  called  '*  Reddy  "  to  come 
and  join  them.  The  boy's  day's  work  was  done, 
all  but  carrying  in  the  wood,  but  he  was  too 
tired  to  play.  He  strolled  over  to  where  his 
uncle,  the  farmer,  miller,  and  liveryman,  stood 


^ 


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S.    . 


{ 


■sh. 


f'*, 


264 


ON  THE  BLACK-LIST 


■  ttj 


in  his  shirt-sleeves,  leaning  on  the  low  fence 
watching  the  fat  pigs  romping  in  the  clover. 
The  boy  had  made  up  his  mind  to  quit  the 
farm.  He  would  leave  quietly,  if  he  could, 
taking  the  good-will  of  his  well-to-do  relative 
with  him.  He  was  not  made  to  be  a  farmer 
and  he  knew  it. 

Remembering  the  advice  of  his  mother,  he 
would  endeavor  to  keep  friends  with  his  uncle 
and  act  openly  and  honorably  with  him. 

Calling  up  all  the  courage  he  could  command, 
he  spoke  to  the  stern  man.  He  said  he  was 
tired  of  the  farm  and  would  like  to  go  out  into 
the  world  and  try  something  else. 

The  farmer  was  furious.  He  could  not 
understand  a  boy  who  would  leave  a  good  home 
to  become  a  tramp.  "  If  you  go  you  need 
never  come  back,"  said  he,  and  the  boy,  glad  to 
be  away,  turned  and  went  into  the  house. 

Into  the  old  satchel  that  had  belonged  to  his 
father  he  packed  all  his  belongings,  —  all  that  he 
cared  to  take  with  hiin,  —  and  when  the  farmer 
and  his  wife  were  fast  asleep  he  went  down  to 
the  water  tank  that  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  mill- 
pond,  and  waited  for  a  train. 


IH 


,  I 


I 


^, 


ON   THE   BLACK-LIST 


265 


These  practical,  hard-working  people  had  ap- 
preciated the  boy  according  to  his  earning  capa- 
city, but  there  was  not  much  sentiment  in  the 
flimily.  They  had  loved  him  as  much  as  they 
loved  the  hired  man  who  had  lived  with  thetn 
three  years,  but  no  more,  and  so  the  boy,  feeling 
this,  had  not  taken  the  trouble  to  say  good-bye. 

It  was  almost  midnight  when  a  long  freight 
train  stopped  at  the  tank.  The  boy  thought  they 
must  have  forgotten  to  bring  a  caboose,  but  at  last 
he  found  it  at  the  end  of  a  half-mile  of  empty 
stock  cars  diat  were  going  West  for  stock. 

The  train  had  started  up  again  before  the 
voyager  reached  the  caboose,  but  he  threw  his 
satchel  in  and  climbed  aboard.  The  conductor 
would  have  dropped  him  off,  but  the  honest 
face  of  the  farmer  lad  was  like  an  open  book  of 
blank  passes,  and  he  carried  him  to  Cleveland. 

The  next  morning  Redmond  strolled  down 
the  freight  yards  and  had  the  good  fortune  to 
meet  the  silent  brakeman  with  the  screaming 
shiit.  At  sight  of  the  farmer's  l)oy  the  brake- 
man  laughed,  —  a  thing  unusual  for  him. 

■  I  want  you  to  ;.:ct  me  a  job,"'  said  Rcd- 
moiKi 


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266 


OAT  THE  BLACK-LIST 


"A  job?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  kind  of  a  job?" 

"  Anything  tiiat  's  railroading." 

By  this  time  the  yardmaster,  a  half  dozen 
switchmen,  and  the  messenger  boy  had  gathered 
round  the  new-comer,  and  when  he  said  he 
would  go  railroading  and  said  it  in  good  Eng- 
lish, they  all  roared,  —  all  save  the  yardmaster. 

"  Railroadin'  !  "  yelled  the  messenger  boy, 
"  wid  milk  ahn  yer  boot?  " 

Red  glanced  at  his  boot  and  at  the  boy.  The 
yardmaster  bade  the  car  boy  keep  quiet.  He 
questioned  the  boy  and  asked  the  shirt  what  he 
knew  of  the  boy,  and  when  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  that  the  boy  had  run  away  from  home  he 
said  he  would  send  him  back  on  29.  The  boy 
declared  that  he  had  not  run  away,  that  his 
uncle  had  said  he  could  go,  but  that  he  must  not 
come  back. 

They  sent  him  to  the  section-house  and  kept 
him  there,  and  when  the  brakeman  on  the  local 
had  investigated  and  learned  that  the  boy  had 
told  the  truth,  he  at  once  became  the  champion 
of  the  "  Alfalfa  Kid,"  as  they  called  him. 


jrjae'Jayeaagrajaa?***^''*^' 


ON  THE  BLACK-LIST 


267 


n 


The  yardmaster  took  such  an  interest  in  Red- 
mond —  "  Red  "  from  now  on  —  that  he  started 
him  out  with  the  messenger  boy  to  learn  the 
yards,  the  routs,  —  the  *' ropes,"  as  he  expressed 
it,  —  so  that  he  might  take  the  place  during  the 
absence  of  this  very  fresh  youth,  who  would  go 
to  school  when  school  opened. 

The  messenger  boy  was  so  "  dudish  "  that  he 
objected  to  "  carrying  signals  fur  a  farmer," 
and  it  was  not  until  the  yardmaster  threatened 
to  dismiss  him  that  he  consented  to  allow 
Redmond  to  accompany  him. 

As  soon  as  they  were  out  of  sight  of  the  shanly 
the  farm  boy  stood  the  messenger  boy  up  against 
a  box-car  and  made  it  plain  that  he  had  not  c.ome 
all  tlie  way  to  Cleveland  to  be  "  run  over." 

He  would  buy  suitable  clothes  as  soon  as  he 
could  earn  some  money. 

Meanwhile  he  would  wear  what  he  had,  and 
would  not  be  insulted.  "  And  you  are  not 
going  to  call  me  Alfalta,  or  Hayseed,  for  I 
won't  let  you." 

The  eyes  of  the  messenger  boy  open«i  wider 
and  wider  as  the  farmer  boy  sjxjke. 

"  Why,  you  don't  peer  to  know  me,  Reddy. 


li 


,,y  i 


I     f   t 


268 


0^r   THE   BLACK-LIST 


They  ain't  a  kid  in  Cleveland  'at  I  ain't 
tumped." 

"  Well,  you  can't  '  tump  '  me." 

"  Can't  I  ?  "  and  as  he  put  up  his  hand  the 
farm  boy  seized  him  by  the  windpipe  and, 
though  he  wiggled  and  kicked  and  cried  — 
actually  cried,  did  this  little  bully  —  he  could 
not  escape.  He  had  been  used  to  dealing  with 
the  thin-legged,  sallow  children,  who  ate  cheap 
candy  and  slept  in  stuffy  tenement  houses,  and 
the  grip  of  the  honest  hand  of  this  boy  was  too 
much  for  him,  and  he  begged  for  mercy.  Red- 
mond had  a  desperate  temper  for  a  boy,  and  he 
would  not  let  his  victim  off  until  he  had  prom- 
ised him  fair  treatment.  From  that  hour  the 
messenger  boy  was  Redmond's  best  friend. 

In  a  little  while  Redmond  was  the  messenger 
boy.  In  his  leisure  moments  he  watched  the 
men  at  work.  He  was  as  quick  of  wit  as  he 
was  of  foot,  and  used  to  amuse  himself  by  taking 
off  the  numbers  of  a  long  string  of  freight  cars 
as  they  rolled  by  into  the  yards. 

When  his  friend  of  the  loud  shirt  had  become 
a  conductor  the  boy  used  to  hand  him  a  slip 
with  the  numbers  and  initials  of  all  the  cars  in 


I 


,■>, 


t  ,• 


,-<MI>*»M*^*^*^»    i»U'i<»fcj«« 


ON  THE  BLACK-LIST 


i 


269 


his  train  as  the  caboose  passed  the  yardmaster's 
ofifice. 

The  silent  man  would  go  over  the  list,  and  if 
he  found  a  mistake  he  would  consult  the  car  in 
question,  and  usually  it  was  he  who  had  made 
the  error. 

If  a  string  of  cars  that  had  been  cut  off  ap- 
peared to  be  coming  in  too  swiftly,  Red  would 
run  up  one  of  the  ladders  and  twist  the  brake 
and  save  a  draw  bar. 

Nothing  escaped  his  notice.  U  he  saw  a 
scratch  on  the  track  he  knew  that  a  brake  rod 
was  down,  and  he  never  stopped  until  the  injured 
car  had  been  located. 


J  < 


-1 


Two  years  from  the  day  he  left  his  uncle's 
farm  Redmond  was  switching  and  swearing  in 
the  Cleveland  yards,  and  the  yardmaster  who 
had  promoted  him  was  the  man  who  had  worn 
the  loud  shirt.     The  boy  was  as  big  as  the  yard- 
master,   and   his  age  had  been  given   in  three 
years  ahead  of  time,  for  he  would  expect  pro- 
motion, and  it  would  be  necessary  for  him  to  be 
twenty-one ;  so  the  yardmaster  had  decided  to 
start  him  well.     The  boy,  having  been  accus- 


.,/ 


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'     f 

It 


'il 


270 


ON  THE   BLACK-LIST 


tomed  to  outdoor  work,  was  strong  and  active, 
and  soon  became  a  good  yardman. 

To  be  sure,  he  learned  to  smoke  and  swear, 
but  he  never  drank.  He  boarded  at  the  sec- 
tion-house that  stood  at  the  end  of  the  yards, 
and  in  less  than  a  year  his  youthful  heart  had 
gone  over  to  the  dark-eyed  daughter  of  the 
section  boss.  The  years  rushed  past  them,  and 
before  they  knew  what  had  happened  the  boy 
was  a  big  blonde  man,  and  the  section  foreman's 
"  little  girl  "  had  developed  into  a  plump,  pretty 
womaii  with  big  black  Irish  eyes. 

It  was  good  for  Red  Smith  that  he  fell  early 
in  love,  for  when  he  was  with  the  girl  he  was  out 
of  trouble  and  missed  many  a  fight ;  for  fighting 
was  his  besetting  sin.  His  record  in  that  re- 
spect was  bad,  and  kept  him  in  the  yards  when 
he  might  have  been  promoted. 

In  the  mean  time  the  section  boss  became  the 
roadmaster.  The  family  now  left  the  section 
station  and  went  to  live  in  a  "  house.' ' 

When  Kitty  was  no  longer  the  daughter  of  the 
section  boss,  helping  at  the  tables,  but  was  the 
daughter  of  the  roadmaster  going  to  school, 
Red   Smith  was   still   switching  in   the   yards. 


<r    "    ■*»  •  ■ 


271 

That   made   no   difference   t7^^^^^^^^^ 

a-'  loyal  and  honest  as  a  girl  could  be -ir 
dKl  make  a  difference  to  the  roadmaste'r      He 

began  to  treat  the  big  switcl,man  coolly.    FinaHy 
he  sa,d  to  Kitty  that  Red  Smith  was  not  fit    om 
P^ny  for  her,  and  it  caused  her  great  oa  n  7 
she  loved  her  father      r.    ,  ^       ^     '  '°'" 

him  1.       r  ^"''^P'  ^''^  ^"d  not  love 

h™  less  after  that,  but  she  loved  her  lover  more 
and  when  she  could  not  see  him  at  homeshe 
-h,m  at  little  ..parties,"  and  at  the  houses  of 

'l-etso"rol:   --'^   '-^   -'  '0  - 

dis:°:s:r  """^ ""'"'-  "■^  -'-"-  - 

Having  met    his    sweetheart,    he    bade    her 
good-bye,  and  set  out  to  find  work.     Of  cour" 
hese  young  people  had  vowed  to  be  true  and 
they  appear  to  have  been  in  earnest 

From  town  to  town,  from  one  road  to  an 
oj^er.  Red  Smith  travelled  in  search  of  wo  k 
At  one  or  two  places    he  found  employmem 

The  irate    roadmaster    had    learned  of   his 


*i      1 


■If 


■■'»-»«—•«.-  -.  •■■^ 


272 


ON  THR   BLACk-LIST 


daughter's  engagement  by  the  simple  process 
of  opening  and  reading  her  letters.  Loving  his 
daughter,  and  being  older  and  wiser  than  she, 
he  deemed  it  his  duty  to  save  her  from  an  un- 
happy marriage  with  a  man  who,  in  addition  to 
having  a  bad  temper,  was  now  little  less  than  a 
tramp.  There  was  a  scene,  —  a  quarrel,  —  and 
the  roadmaster  started  the  black-list  on  the  trail 
of  the  young  man,  so  as  to  keep  him  tramping. 

Very  often  the  wanderer  wrote  to  Kitty 
McGillicudy  at  Cleveland,  but  he  never  heard 
from  her. 


\.K- 


vW 


Kitty  had  been  at  school  at  Cincinnati  nearly 
two  years.  She  was  walking  one  evening  through 
a  park  at  twilight,  when  she  came  suddenly 
UDon  n  man  seated  alone  upon  a  wooden  bench. 
Before  the  man  she  stopped  short.  The  man 
lifted  his  eyes,  and,  leaping  to  his  feet,  cried 
"Kitty,"  and  Kitty  put  up  her  hands  to  keep 
him  away.  But  when  she  had  looked  upon 
the  sad  face  and  had  seen  the  shadow  that  now 
came  upon  it,  she  held  out  her  hand. 

It  would  take  too  long  to  write  all  that  passed 
between   these   young  people  in  the  half-hour 


►  «HW^  y\T'*'''*'*'1^  *'^''^'^*'^*.*''^^*****''*''''^'^^*»»-"*''*''**i''  MITMiiii  ^*n..«.>ii»iiii»  ytmm,.i*mfl 


O.V   Till:   Ht.ACK-LIST 


*73 


l>.--t  went   by  like   a   breath   of  suntmer   wi,..| 

from  a  bee  of  roses;  but  when  this  hones,  girl 

>a.   learned  ho>v  her  lover  ha,l  suffered,  tran,pe.,, 

and  even  begge.l,  and  that  l,e  ha<i  endured  i, 

al    uncomplainingly  for  her,  -  ho.   her  father 

';'"  ':"  ^""-^  ^"d  .logged  the  one  n.an 

':•"'  fl'  ''^"   'o^'^d-  from  her   childhood,   she 
loved  him  more  than  ever. 

Under  an  assumed  name  he  had  been  able  to 
secure  work,  and.  having  suffered  much,  he  knew 
>ow  to  hold  his  place,  and  now  at  the  age  of 
uventy-three  (twenty-six  in  his  personal  record) 
I'e  was  yard,nas,er  at  Cincinnati  at  a  salary  of 
one  hundred  dollars  a  n,onth.     He  had  nLer 
forgotten  his   engagen,ent  for  a  tnoment,   and 
had  been  savmg  his  money  for  a  whole  year. 
He  had  unvested  a  little  in  lots  near  where  the 
new  shops  were  to  be,  and  had  managed  to  get 
bank°""  "  '°  '"'  "''"'  '"  '^'  ^-'i- 

Before  the  young  people  had  left  the  bench 
the  .w,l,ght  bad  deepened  into  darkness,  and 
M.SS  K,tty  McGilhcndy  had  renewed  her  jlrom- 
■se  to  be  married  to  Yardmaster  Jones,  whose 
name  had  been  Smith  -  some  day. 

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274 


ON   THE  BLACK-LIST 


The  next  day  the  young  woman  look  a  girl 
friend  into  her  confidence.  After  that  she  went 
to  her  room,  had  a  good  cry,  and  then  went 
about  her  business,  full  of  a  great  secret. 

That  afternoon  Kitty's  father  stepped  from 
the  train,  and  met  Jones,  the  yardmaster,  whose 
name  was  Smith,  face  to  face.  The  two  men 
glared  at  each  other,  and  the  yardmaster  had 
hard  work  to  keep  his  hands  off  the  roadmaster. 

McGilhcudy  was  a  shrewd  man  and  hard  to 
fool.  His  sudden  and  unexpected  arrival  sur- 
prised his  daughter  and  added  to  her  confusion. 
"So  you  have  found  each  other  at  last/'  said 
the  roadmaster,  when  he  was  alone  with  his 
daughter. 

Now,  the  leading  characteristic  in  Katie's 
composition  was  her  honesty,  and  she  at  once 
answered  yes.  To  the  roadmaster's  amazement, 
the  girl  closed  the  door  and  told  her  father 
swiftly  and  distinctly  that  he  had  been  extremely 
cruel  in  persecuting  this  industrious  young  man  ; 
the  fire,  the  while,  flashing  from  her  dark  eyes. 

Two  hours  later,  the  roadmaster  and  his 
daughter  were  on  the  way  back  to  Cleveland. 
The  young  woman  had  not  had  time  to  write  to 


I  i.»»»i>»i>  II 


nfti  ini<iiii  I  *m 


■Mr-w 


O.W   THE  BLACK-LIST 


275 


the  yardniaster,  but  she  had  whispered  a  hurried 
message  into  the  ear  of  her  gi.i  friend,  who  had 
undertaken  to  help  her  to  keep  her  secret. 

A  week  later  the  yardmaster  had  been  dis- 
missed. He  was  told  briefly  that  his  name  was 
Smith,  and  not  Jones,  anil  that  his  services  were 
no  longer  required. 

The  yardmaster  showed  no  surprise.  Having 
confidence  in  himself,  feeling  independent  in  the 
possession  of  a  thousand  hard-earned  dollars, 
and  rich  in  the  wealth  of  a  woman's  love,  he 
asked  only  that  the  division  superintendent  give 
him  a  letter,  saying  how  he  had  performed  his 
work  for  the  company. 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  the  local  superinten- 
dent began  to  realize  what  the  company  was 
losing  in  this  man's  dismissal.  Entering  the 
despatcher's  office,  he  seated  himself  at  one  of 
the  keys  and  began  talking  with  the  general 
manager's  office.  The  general  manager  was 
not  in,  but  a  message  came  with  G.  M.  at 
the  bottom,  to  the  effect  that  this  man  Smith, 
who  called  himself  Jones,  had  been  black-listed, 
and  if  he  was  not  good  enough  for  a  one-horse 
road  like  tlje  Sunrise,  he  would  not  do  for  "  us." 


p 


'J 


276 


ON   THE   BLACK-LIST 


The  experience  of  Redmond  Smith  was  the 
experience  of  hundreds  of  others,  worthy  and 
unworthy,  who  looked  in  vain  for  employment 
while  their  names  were  on  the  black-list. 

Having  accepted  a  letter  in  his  own  name,  our 
friend  now  determined  to  set  his  feet  in  the  new, 
wide  West,  where  a  number  of  lines  were  reach- 
ing out  toward  the  great  plains.  There,  he  had 
heard,  good  men  were  in  demand,  and  if  a  man 
kept  sober  "  on  duty  "  and  was  willing  and  com- 
petent, no  questions  were  asked. 

It  was  the  way  of  the  West  to  take  a  man  for 
what  he  was,  without  wasting  time  prying  into 
the  past.  Men,  like  whiskey,  improved  with  age. 
If  a  man  who  had  been  foolish  got  sense  with 
his  whiskers,  and  wanted  to  reform,  the  men  of 
the  new  roads  in  the  West  were  willing  to  give 
him  a  show. 

When  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  go  West, 
Redmond  became  aware  of  a  burning  desire  to 
visit  the  old  farm  down  by  the  mill.  He  would 
stand  in  the  orchard  and  see  the  overland  flyer 
go  by,  as  he  had  done  in  his  boyhood's  un- 
happy days,   down  on  the  farm. 

Oddly  enough  he  found  his  uncle  standing  by 


1.1 


ii  i>  wo  I  mi  I  ix 


mmtmm 


■  MHI'  .lOXH— «<t<i»<l»<5|!- 


ON  Tl/E  BLACKLIST 


^77 


he  bw  fence -a  plank  fence  now  _  vva.ching 
t''«  fat  P.KS  that  were  romping  in  ,hc   clover 
H.S  face  was  furrowed,  and  his  hair,  that  had 
Been  iron-gray,  was  almost  white. 

chJerily"'  ""'"''  ""'''■"  ""  "^  ^°""8  ■"-• 

„„r;,?'''   ''"'°  "•=  '^«^"  "«  you.  callin'  me 

"Redmond  Smith." 

"Goon-/  ain't,  nother,"  said  the  farmer, 
facmg  about  and  grasping  the  top  board  of  the 
fence  with  both  hands. 

"Yes,  I  be,"  said  the  boy,  mischievously  imi- 
tatmg  his  uncle ;  "  shake  !  " 

The  uncle  took  the  hand  of  the  young  man 
-thout  speaking.     He  gazed  intently  upL  .he 
pronmmg  youth,  whose  splendid  physique  fasci- 
nated hm,,  and  reminded  him  of  his  younger 
brother,  who  had  been  sleeping  for  many  years 
m  the   quiet  village  graveyard.      He  had  just 
been  watching  the   sunlight  leaving  the  white 
,,     •  """^  *>>•  °"«'  '■"  'he  city  of  the  dead  across 
the  narrow  vale,  and  thinking  of  the  boy  that 
had  left  him,  who  might  now  comfort  him  in 
his  old   age.     He  had   been   thinking  that  if 


M 


.*{i» 


278 


ON   THE   BLACK-LIST 


Redmond  never  came  back  (and  he  had  told 
him  not  to),  there  would  be  none  of  his  blood 
to  follow  him  across  the  rill  when  the  time  came 
for  him  to  go. 

"Where's  Aunt  Mary?"  asked  the  young 
man,  glancing  at  the  big  white  house. 

"  Over  there,"  said  the  sad-faced  farmer, 
swinging  his  head  lightly  in  the  direction  of  the 
village  burying-ground. 

"What!  not  there?" 

"  Yep.     Did  n't  ye  know  it,  Redmond?  " 

"No,"  said  the  boy  ;  and  glancing  up  he  saw 
a  tear  roll  down  the  face  that  had  once  seemed 
like  marble  to  him. 

The  next  day  Redmond  strolled  over  the  old 
farm  with  his  uncle,  stood  in  the  orchard  and 
saw  the  brakeman  on  local  open  the  switch  and 
set  in  a  car ;  but  oh,  what  a  difference. 

This  fellow  had  no  collar,  and  actually  wore  a 
jumper,  like  a  fireman. 

That  evening  Redmond  went  over  to  the 
fence  by  the  clover  field,  and,  holding  out  his 
hand,  said,  abruptly,"  Good-bye,  uncle." 

"  Where  'd  ye  come  froiv<,  Redmond  ?  "  asked 
the  farmer. 


ON   THE   BLACK-LIST 


279 


"  Oh,  nowhere  in  particular/'  said  the  young 
man.  ^ 

"  And  be  you  going  back  to  the  same  place 
neow?"  ' 

"  Yes,"  said  Redmond ;  and  when  the  old 
man  had  taken  his  hand  and  let  it  go  again,  he 
strolled  down  to  the  water  tank  to  wait  for  a 
train. 

It  fell  out  that  when  Redmond  Smith,  the 
outcast  of  the  Sunrise  Route,  secured  work  at 
Kansas  City,  he  reported  to  the  man  who  had 
awed  him  at  Mill  Switch  and  accepted  a  hat-full 
of  peaches  without  thanks.  He  was  the  division 
superintendent,  and  he  wanted  a  trainmaster. 
He  gave  the  place  to  Redmond  Smith. 

These  two  shrewd  young  men  knew  the  busi- 
ness from  the  bottom.  Neither  had  ever  seen 
the  mside  of  a  college,  but  they  could  take  the 
numbers  from  the  cars  of  a  freight  train  at  ten 
miles  an  hour. 

They  could  figure  time  and  build  time  cards, 
taking  advantage  of  the  road,  and  they  knew 
how  to  get  business.  What  was  vastly  more 
important  at  that  time  in  the  West,  they  knew 
how  to  handle  it  when  they  got  it. 


28o 


ON   THE   BLACK  LIST 


t 


The  railway  grew ;  the  West  grew,  and  they 
grew  with  it.  When  a  trainman  blew  in  from 
the  East  and  asked  for  work,  Redmond  Smith 
looked  at  his  hands,  and  at  his  face,  turned  him 
out  in  the  yard,  and  if  he  swung  his  arms  right 
he  was  right.  If  he  fell  down  he  was  discharged 
and  sent  adrift  in  a  busy  world ;  but  the  com- 
pany did  not  say,  "  'I'hou  shalt  not  work."  There 
was  no  time  nor  place  for  that  evil  thing  —  the 
black-list  —  in  the  healthful,  hospitable  West. 

Many  a  time  Kitty  McGillicudy  had  turned 
her  tearful  face  to  the  Virgin  that  looked  down 
from  the  wall  and  implored  her  aid  in  finding 
her  lost  lover. 

The  girl  friend,  upon  whom  the  unhappy 
young  people  had  relied,  had  taken  the  veil, 
and  so  awoke  suddenly  to  the  wickedness  of  her 
part  in  this  plot  against  a  loving  parent,  who 
was  trying  to  save  his  daughter  from  an  unhappy 
marriage.  She  had  agreed  to  receive  th*  young 
girl's  letters  from  Redmond  and  deliver  them  in 
another  envelope,  to  Kitty,  but  when  the  first 
letter  came  she  handled  it  gingerly,  wondered 
what  was  in  it,  crossed  herself,  and  sent  it  back 


OiW   THE  BLACK-LIST 


281 


to  the  writer.  After  that  she  could  do  nothing 
but  hold  her  course,  and  so  the  love-letters  all 
went  back  to  the  writer  unopened  and  unread. 

The  next  few  years  following  the  girl's  rt.turn 
to  her  father's  home  in  Cleveland  brought  a 
great  change  to  the  roadmaster.  There  had 
been  a  new  president  elected  for  the  Sunrise 
Route,  a  new  general  manager  had  come  over 
from  New  England,  and  McGillicudy  had  lost 
his  job.  He  had  scarcely  ceased  to  bewail  his 
fate  when  another  trouble  overtook  him.  In 
the  shadow  of  this  great  sorrow  he  had  forgotten 
his  lesser  one,  and  his  grievance  against  the 
man  whose  greatest  offence,  according  to  Mc- 
Gillicudy's  way  of  reasoning,  had  been  to  love 
the  dark-eyed  Kilty.  He  did  not  know,  of 
course,  that  the  object  of  his  wrath  was  then 
far  beyond  the  Missouri^  in  the  free,  wide  West, 
where  little  men  with  petty  grievances  can't 
live. 

After  the  death  of  his  wife,  who  had  shared 
his  hunger  in  the  old  green  isle,  and  shared  his 
prosperity  in  America,  the  old  roadmaster  be- 
came a  sad  and  thoughtful  man.  He  had  pros- 
pered in  America  and  enjoyed  its  freedom,  but, 


282 


ON   THE   BLACK-LIST 


1^ 


like  many  a  foreigner,  at  the  first  opportunity 
he  had  withheld  that  freedom  from  a  fellow- 
man. 

The  ever  dutiful  Kitty,  under  the  weight  of  a 
double  grief,  —  the  loss  of  a  lover  and  of  a 
mother,  too,  —  sat  brooding  in  the  shadow  of 
her  sorrow. 

Far  out  in  the  West  one  day,  two  railway  men 
sat  discussing  the  problem  of  keeping  a  new 
track  in  shape. 

"  I  Ve  written  to  old  man  McGillicudy,"  said 
the  general  manager.  "  He  's  out  of  a  job  by 
the  new  deal  on  the  Sunrise,  and  it  we  can  get 
him  we  need  not  worry  about  the  roadbed. 
You  remember  old  Mack,  the  gruff  old  devil 
who  was  always  showing  up  on  the  head  end  of 
a  work  train,  or  on  the  rear  of  the  fast  mail?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  superintendent,  "  I  remember 
him." 

In  a  few  days  the  general  manager  had  a 
wire  from  the  old  roadmaster,  who  had  been 
roadmaster  when  tWs  same  general  manager 
was  braking  on  local  freight,  and  when  this 
young  superintendent  was  switching  in  the 
Cleveland  yards,  saying  he  would  take  the  place. 


ON   THE    BLACK-LIST 


283 


The  general  manager  wired  transportation  for 
John  McGillicudy  and  family,  and  ten  days  later 
the  old  man  was  in  a  new  world. 

Like  the  plain  old  man  that  he  was,  he  had 
taken  his  daughter  up  to  the  general  offices  with 
him.  When  they  had  been  in  the  office  of  the 
manager  for  half  an  hour,  the  stern-faced  official 
said  he  would  introduce?  the  new  roadmaster  to 
the  superintendent. 

He  blew  into  a  tin  pipe  and  told  the  man  who 
answered  to  send  Mr.  Smith  to  hin. 

Now,  when  John  McGillicudy  saw  the  super- 
intendent,  he  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead  and 
said  to  the  general  manager  that  he  could  not 
take  the  place. 

'*Oh,  yes,  you  can,"  said  the  young  man  to 
whom  he  was  to  report  the  next  day  for  duty, 
"we  have  no  black-list  here."  And  then  he 
walked  over  to  the  girl,  and  the  touch  of  her 
hand  told  him  that  she'd  not  forgotten,  and 
could  never  forget 


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S"!   *' 

Mi    i 

THE  FIRST  TRAIN  OVER  THE  BRIDGE 


JT   may  have   been   because  they   had  just 
^     moved    into    their    own    little    home,   or 
because  he  had  a  new  engine,  or  because  he 
was  to  take  the  first  express  train  over  the  big 
bridge,  but,  at  all  events,   the  engineer  of  the 
night    express   was    unusually    cheerful.      The 
fireman  was  equally  happy,  for  a  good  fireman 
IS  as  proud  of  his  engine  as  is  the  engineer. 
He   had   wiped   the  dust  from  the  blue-black 
jacket,  touched  up  the  brass  bands,  that  in  those 
days  begirt  the  big  machines  that  flew  before 
the  swift  trains,  and  now  stood  beside  the  old 
engmeer,  admiring  the  engine. 

The  engineer's  wife,  with  her  young  friend, 
who  happened  to  be  the  fireman's  sweetheart 
had  come  down  to  the  depot  to  see  « the  boys '' 
Oil  with  their  beautiful  new  machine,  all  gaudy 
in  black  and   brass   that  shone  like  burnished 


288      T//E  FIRST  TRAIN  OVER    THE   BRIDGE 

gold.  In  the  shadow  of  tlie  great  engine  the 
lovers  lingered  and  talked  in  low  tones  of  what 
was  uppermost  in  their  minds.  But  the  girl  was 
not  quite  happy.  She  had  a  nervous  dread  of 
the  awful  engine.  She  had  never  been  so  near 
to  a  locomotive,  and  now  the  valve  flew  open, 
just  as  she  was  saying  that  she  had  a  presenti- 
ment of  some  great  evil,  and  with  a  shudder 
she  darted  her  hand  into  the  hand  of  the  fire- 
man ;  and  it  lay  there  soft  and  white,  like  a 
bouquet  in  a  hodman's  barrow. 

"  You  '11  jump,  won't  you,  if  there  is  any 
danger?  "  said  the  girl ;  and  the  fireman  laughed 
and  assured  her  that  there  was  no  danger. 

"  Aye,  but  there  is  always  danger,"  urged  the 
girl,  standing  close  to  the  tall  young  man  who 
was  to  be  her  husband.  He  pressed  her  hand. 
Now  the  superintendent  came  forward,  along 
with  the  master-mechanic,  and  the  modest 
maiden  drew  away  and  found  a  harbor  in  the 
shadow  of  her  chaperone.  Presently  the  agent 
of  the  express  company  came  up,  took  the 
superintendent  to  one  side,  and  the  two  officials 
talked  together  in  a  whisper.  Now  the  railway 
official  spoke  to  the   engineer.     "The  detec- 


^ffE  j^,xsr  7vf^/,v  orEK  t„e  brwgf.    289 

tives,"  began  the  superintendent,  "have  sot 
>v.nd  of  a  robbery.  The  Wabash  gang,  i,  has 
been  vaguely  hinted,  will  hold  yo„  up  at  the 
Kaskasba,  so  you  might  better  be  on  the  look- 

out,  and  —  " 

'■Whist,  be  aisy,"   whispered   the   engineer, 
nodd,ng  toward   the  two  women.     "  Don't  let 
he  w,fe  hear  ye  talkin'  that  guff  about  detec- 
■ves,  or  ye  '11  have  to  get  another  man  .0  run 
her      She  s  never  a  bit  afraid  of  a  wreck,  but 
■St  breathe  about  train  robbers  and  she  '11  start 
throwm    water    out  of   her  stack   in    a    holy 
minute."  ' 

"Very  well,"   said  the   official;    "but  you 
must  not  call   it   'gufl;-  ^^   ,h„     •         . 

cianger."      The    driver  '  assured    him"thaTTe 
would  not  stop  at  the   Kaskaskia  unless  the 
bndge    was    burning,   and    the   superintendent 
smd   good-n,ght  and   went   his  way.      In   ,he 
mean  t,me   the   master-mechanic   had   strolled 
over  to  where  the  women  were,  and  engaged 
the  g.rl  ,n  conversation.     A  pretty  girl  Zl  , 
ra,lway  man,  regardless  of  age  oVclass, Ta 
lamb  attracts  a  lion.  »     =>  a 

"So  you  thou^c^ht  you'd   like  to  come  do^vn 

19 


290      THE  FIRST   TRAIiV  OVER    THE  BRIDGE 


and  see  Dennis  off  on  his  last  trip,  did  you, 
Maggie  ?  "  asked  the  master-mechanic.  Maggie 
blushed  becomingly,  and  nestled  nearer  to  the 
engineer's  wife,  as  she  asked,  ''Why  his  last 
trio?" 

"  Well,  he  's  going  to  be  promoted  to-morrow," 
said  the  oiificial ;  and  the  girl  clapped  her  hands 
and  gave  a  little  cry  of  joy,  but  the  M.  M.  put 
up  his  finger,  and  she  was  silent. 

"  A  young  man  who  is  brave  enough  to  take 
a  wife  on  fireman's  wages  deserves  promotion, 
and  we  are  going  to  make  an  example  of  him  — 
not  an  awful  example,  but  a  good  one  —  for  the 
rest  to  follow." 

The  girl  blushed  again,  and  the  good  wife  of 
the  engine-driver  put  a  protecting  arm  about  the 
slender  waist.  She  knew  it,  and  had  known  it 
for  hours,  for  her  husband,  whr  had  helped  to 
bring  it  about,  had  told  her.  Railroad  men  have 
few  secrets  that  their  wives  do  not  help  them  to 
hold,  and  the  fewer  they  have  the  better.  Make 
your  wife  your  confidant  and  nothing  that  con- 
cerns you  will  be  news  to  her ;  therefore  she  will 
not  gossip  about  your  business,  for  women  like 
to  have   something  "  new  "  to  say  when  they 


THE  FIRST   TRAIN  OVER    THE   BRIDGE 


291 


talk.  It  was  almost  leaving  time.  The  girl 
stole  to  the  side  of  her  lover,  who  drew  her 
dic,creetly  into  the  shadow  of  the  engine. 

"Oh,  Dennie,"  she  cried  in  a  big  whisper, 
'  I  've  got  good  news  for  you  —  no,  I  mus  n't  tell, 
so  don't  ask  me,  but,  Oh,  it 's  such  news  ! "  and 
she  clapped  her  little  hands  joyfully,  without 
making  a  particle  of  noise.  The  fireman  glanced 
up  and  down  the  line,  and  then  his  arm  stole 
round  the  girl's  waist,  and  he  pressed  her  to  his 
newly  washed  jumper,  and  felt  her  iieart  beating 
against  his  breast  as  the  heart  of  a  wild  bird  beats 
when  you  catch  it  and  hold  it  in  your  hand. 

Love  is  blind,  but  chaperones  are  ever  on  the 
lookout,  and  when  the  good  woman  saw  the 
young  people  "  killing  in  the  dark,"  it  made  her 
sigh  for  the  days  that  were  gone,  and,  stealing  to 
her  husband's  side,  she  sneaked  a  little  kiss  up 
under  the  peak  of  his  cap,  and  he  caught  it  as 
he  dropped  a  marker  on  the  main  pin. 

The  Vandalia  had  the  first  place  on  the  plat- 
form of  the  new  station,  and  behind  the  engine 
that  now  stood  steaming  and  puffing,  impatient 
to  be  off,  there  was  a  splendid  train.  The  Alton, 
the  Wabash,  the  O.  &  M.,  and  other  older  roads 


292       THE  FIRST   TRAIN  OVER    THE   BRIDGE 

were  made  to  feel  the  force  of  the  new  Hne,  and 
the  result  was  a  better  class  of  trains  running  out 
of  St.  Louis  than  ran  at  that  time  out  of  any  of 
the  railway  centres  farther  East.  Now  the  con- 
ductor tosses  his  white  light,  and  as  the  ray  of  it 
flashes  on  his  spick-span  uniform,  all  brilliant 
with  brass  buttons  and  gold  cord,  the  engineer 
opens  the  throttle,  and  the  big  machine  slips  out 
of  the  long,  low  shed. 

How  wild  and  high  and  awful  the  big  bridge 
seemed  to  the  engineer,  who  now  found  himself 
gliding  above  the  broad  river, —  over  the  tops  of 
tall  steamers,  that  bellowed  at  screaming  ferries 
that  were  sulking  in  the  river,  jealous  of  the  big 
bridge  that  had  robbed  them  of  their  revenue 
and  their  glory  !  Now  the  strong,  swift  steed, 
feeling  the  earth  beneath  her  feet  again,  bounded 
away  to  the  bluffs  at  Collinsville.  A  few  moments 
later  she  screamed  for  Troy,  and  without  stop- 
ping went  roaring  down  toward  the  West  Silver- 
creek  Bridge.  The  fireman  strained  his  eyes  as 
they  trembled  round  the  curve  below  Sherman 
Park,  a  new  town  that  had  just  been  hacked  out 
of  the  oak  forest.  Now  they  found  a  long  tan- 
gent, and  the  driver  saw  the  friendly  white  light 


run  flKST  TSM/.V  OysR    THE   BKIOGE 


293 


at  tl,e  bridge  beyond  Hauler's,  and  the  head- 
light .juivered  on  the  furrowed  face  of  the  faith- 
(ul  old  watchman. 

,    'ITie  men  on  the  engine  exchanged  glances 
as  the  big  engine  hfted  tliem  up  toward  High- 
lands.     It   was   almost   midnight   when    thev 
reached   Effingham,  the  end   of  their  run,  but 
there  was  no  engine  available  to  take  the  place 
of  the  dusty  steed,  for  this  was  one  of  the  most 
■mportant  runs  on  the  road.     The  line  was  new 
they  were  short  of  engines,  and  she  must  Ao 
double   work  to-night.     The   engineer  refused 
to   leave   her,   the  fireman   remained   with  tl,e 
driver,  and  in  ten  minutes  they  were  off  again 
for  the  State  line. 

When  only   a   half-hundred   miles  remained 
between  them  and   Terre  Haute,  they  stopped 
at  a  lonely  tank  for  water.     While  the  driver 
was  watching  the  fireman's  signal  at  the  top  of 
the  engine  tank  (it's  hard  to  stop  a  heavy  train 
just  so,  you  know)  two  men  in  long  linen  dusters 
wearing  steel  masks,  boarded  the  engine.     They 
ordered  the  engineer  to  slack  back,  cut  off  the 
mail  and  express  car,  and  "  pull  down  the  track 
a  piece." 


294       ^^^  FIRST  TRAIN  OVER    THE  BRIDGE 


mi\     ' 


The  indignant  driver  looked  at  the  men  with- 
out making  any  reply.  The  men  became  nerv- 
ous. They  were  not  cool  and  polite,  like  the 
gentlemen  who  were  in  the  same  line  of  business 
at  that  time  in  the  newer  and  wilder  West.  The 
fireman  saw  the  robbers,  remembered  the  advice 
of  his  sweetheart  — "jumped,"  and  went  back  to 
warn  the  captain  of  the  train. 

"Will  you  take  our  signals?"  asked  one  of 
the  catchers,  glaring  at  the  driver  through  his 
bird-cage. 

"  No,"  said  the  engineer. 

The  man  in  the  mask  was  toying  awkwardly 
with  his  six-shooter.  Next  to  a  drunken  man  a 
scared  and  nervous  man  is  most  dangerous  with 
a  gun.  Now  the  second  robber  came  forward 
to  say  that  he  had  pulled  the  pin  behind  the 
express  car,  and  the  other  gentleman  in  long 
linen  renewed  his  request,  but  the  driver  stub- 
bornly refused  to  pull  out.  Some  one  came 
running  forward  ;  the  nervous  robber  levelled  his 
gun,  fired,  and  the  driver  fell  dead  across  the 
arm-rest.  The  robbers  opened  the  throttle,  ran 
down  the  line  about  a  mile,  and  stopped  near  a 
farmhouse.       They  now  ordered   the   express 


I     - 


THE  FIRST   TRALV  OVER    THE  BRIDGE 


'95 


messenger  to   open   the   car,  and  he   refused. 
The  farmer,  hearing  the  talk,  looked  out,  and 
seeing  the  locomotive,  came  out  to  see  why  it 
should  be  standiiig  there  in  his  field  at  two  a.  m. 
Farmer-like  he  had   not  thought  of  danger, 
but  came  sauntering  up  the  track  with  the  head- 
light gleaming  on   his  hickory  shirt.      Nearer 
and  nearer  he  came,  walking  unconsciously  up 
against  the  guns   of  the   desperadoes.     They 
could  count  the  bone  buttons  on  his  breast,  and 
see  a  spot  where  he  had  dropped  some  tgg  on 
his  shirt-front  that  morning  at  breakfast.     Now 
the  glare  of  the  headlight  so  blinded  him  that 
he  held  his  head  down  so  as  to  shade  his  eyes. 
The  two  masked  murderers  raised  their  revolvers 
and  aimed  at  the  inapprehensive  man.     Perhaps 
they  thought  it  a  good  time  to  fire,  now  that  his 
eyes  were  shaded,  and  they  were  not  compelled 
to  look  the  while  into  his  honest  face.     Each 
seemed  to  wait  for  the  other  to  fire.    Suddenly 
the  farmer  looked  up.   "  Hey,  thar,"  he  shouted. 
"  Whatche  doin'  thar  ?  " 

Now  the  sight  of  the  farmer's  face  and  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  ringing  out  on  tl.o  still  night 
air,  so  terrified  the  robbers  that  they  took  to 


296      THE  FIRST  TRAIN  OVER    THE   BRIDGE 

their  heels,  cowards  that  they  were,  and  left  the 
messenger  and  the  farmer  in  charge  of  the  train. 
Larry  Hazen,  the  express  company's  detective, 
and  detective  Thiel  of  St.  Louis  went  after  the 
robbers.  They  chased  them  into  the  wilderness 
of  the  Wabash  bottoms,  but  were  unable  to  chase 
them  out  again. 

.  Some  years  after  the  murder  of  the  engineer, 
young  Pinkerton  discovered  a  man  at  Chicago 
known  as  '*  Big  Ed.  Hennessey."  who  claimed 
to  know  the  robbers.  The  Pinkertons  got  the 
short  card  monte  sharp  out  of  jail  and  sent  him 
down  to  testify  against  the  alleged  robbers. 
They  had  been  arrested  by  a  detective,  who  had 
heard  a  man  and  a  woman  discussing  the  hold- 
up in  a  drinking  house  at  I'erre  Haute.  Hen- 
nessey testified  strongly  against  one  of  the  men. 
He  swore  that  this  man  had  asked  him  to  join 
in  the  robbery,  but  he  had  refused.  His  busi- 
ness was  that  of  a  robber,  but  not  of  the  high- 
way variety.  His  testimony,  however,  was  not 
taken  as  the  whole  thing  by  the  jury.  The 
accused,  having  good  counsel,  was  cleared,  and 
so  the  murder  of  the  engineer  has  remained  one 
of  the  many  mysteries  that  are  still  unsolved. 


*t 


t 


THE  FIRST  TRAIN  OVER    THE   BRIDGE 


297 


The  childless  widow  of  the  murdered  man  is 
an  old  woman  now ;  she  lives  where  she  has  lived 
for  the  past  twenty  years,  with  Maggie  and  her 
husband.  She  has  ever  loved  Maggie,  for  she 
it  was  who  put  the  poor  woman  up  to  stealing 
tliat  sweet  last  kiss. 


!l 


if 


iFann^  ano  tijc  iFirrman 


f 


FANNY  AND  THE   FIREMAN 


C  It  here,  please,"  said  Fanny  ;  and  she  stood 
*^     with  her  siiapely  hands  upon  the  back  of 
a  chair  that  she  had  drawn  a  little  way  out  from 
the  table.     It  was  the   boast  of  the  proprietor 
that  he  had  the  handsomest  lot  of  table-girls  on 
the  road,  and  the  Queen  of  the  collection  was 
Fanny  McCann.     That  is  how  .he  happened  to 
be  head  waitress,  for  she  could  not  know  much 
of  the  business.     She  had  come  to  the  eating 
station  partly  because  her  widowed  mother  was 
poor  and  partly  to  gratify  a  consuming  desire  to 
pose  as  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  place,  for  she 
had  been  consulting  her  mirror. 

The  fireman  frowned,  but  took  a  ^;,ax  next 
the  proprietor  of  the  Mint  Julep.  The  fire- 
man's face,  newly  washed  and  hard  rubbed, 
glistened  in  the  glare  of  the  electric  light,  and 
the  same  light  played  upon  the  jewelled  hands 
and  immaculate    shirt-front  of  the  Julep  man 


302 


FANNY  AND    THE   FIREMAN 


The  fireman  bowed  coldly,  and  the  other,  feel- 
ing a  certain  superiority  in  the  matter  of  dress 
and  personal  appearance,  smiled. 

The  head  waitress,  taking  a  position  at  one  of 
the  windows,  stood  looking  at  the  two  men,  both 
of  whom  had  made  love  to  her.  She  had  pur- 
posely seated  them  so  as  to  get  their  faces  in 
one  frame,  as  it  were,  for  she  had  been  unable 
to  forsake  one  and  cleave  to  the  other.  She 
respected  the  fireman,  —  she  had  loved  him 
once,  and  had  acknowledged  it  to  him,  —  but 
she  was  dazzled  by  the  handsome,  well-groomed 
proprietor  of  the  Mint  Julep.  Once  or  twice 
the  fireman  ventured  to  look  up,  but  each  time 
he  saw  her  gazing  upon  his  rival,  and  his  heart 
was  filled  vith  dread. 

"What  time  shall  I  call?  "  he  asked,  as  Fanny 
punched  his  meal-ticket. 

"  Not  before  nine.  I  detest  being  first  in  a 
ball-room." 

"  Suppose  we  say  eight-thirty  ?  It  will  be  nine 
by  the  time  we  reach  the  hall." 

"  Nine,"  said  Fanny,  smiling  and  no(3ding  at 
the  Julep  man  as  he  passed  out,  with  his  chin- 
chilla thrown  gracefully  over  his  shoulders. 


M 


FAXNV  AND    THE  FIREMAN 


303 


"  But  I  'm  on  the  reception  committee." 
''Then  go  and  recep  and  come  back  for  me. 

I  shan't  leave  the  house  before  nine.     My,  how 

jay  you  are  ! '' 

The  fireman  went  out  with  a  heavy   heart. 
Fanny  was  getting  on.     She  had  not  used  such 
language  to  him  before,  and  it  cut  him  to  the 
quick.     He  iiad  felt  it  himself,  but  to  have  her 
see  it  and  tell  him  of  his  shortcomings  to  his 
face  was   crushing.     He   remembered  how  he 
had  begged  her  to  keep  out  of  the  eating  house 
and  tried  to  hint  to  her  mother  that  the  place 
was  full  of  lures. 

'*  It 's  only  a  short  step  in  the  direction  of 
danger,"  he  said,  _  "a  public  dining-room,  camp- 
meetmg,  the  skating  rink,  an  —  " 

'*  Stop  ! "  said  Fanny's  mother.  *'  I  will  not 
have  you  hint  even  that  Fanny  is  capable  of 
being  bad." 

And  so  the  fireman  had  been  powerless  to    - 
prevent  the  pure  young  girl  from  putting  herself 
in  this  Eden  so  freighted  with  poisonous  fruit. 

Promptly  at  nine  o'clock  he  called  for  Fanny. 
She  would  be  out  in  a  moment,  her  mother  said. 

During  the  half  hour  in  which  he  waited  for 


304 


FANNY  AND   TIIK  FIREMAN 


the  expiration  of  a  woman's  "moment"  the 
fireman  noticed  a  number  of  new  pieces  of  fur- 
niture. Also  he  noticed  that  Fanny's  mother 
was  a  little  mite  remote.  Fanny  herself,  while 
amply  deliberate,  was  irritable  and  nervous. 
Conversation  seemed  to  go  slowly  with  them, 
like  a  heavy  train  on  an  up  grade,  and  when  he 
shut  off  they  appeared  to  be  going  back. 

When  they  entered  the  ball-room,  the  fiddlers 
were  already  fiddling,  and  they  fell  in  line  for 
the  opening  walk  around.  Over  in  one  end  of 
the  hall  there  was  a  bank  of  plants  and  ferns, 
loaned  by  leading  citizens  for  the  firemen's  an- 
nual ball,  and  just  in  front  of  the  oasis  stood  the 
Julep  man,  immaculate  as  ever,  and  wearing  the 
only  dress-suit  in  the  room.  My,  but  he  was  ra- 
diant !  and  all  the  more  so  by  comparison,  for  not 
a  few  of  the  respectable  black  suits  worn  by  the 
firemen  and  their  friends  were  beginning  to  take 
on  that  unmistakable  shine  that  comes  with  age. 

"Oh,  Isaac,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wolfstine  to 
her  husband,  "  what  a  beautiful  young  lady  I 
Who  is  she?" 

"  She  ees  not  what  you  say,  —  a  lady.  She 
ees  waitress  fum  ze  eating  house." 


FANNY  AND    THE   FIREMAN 


305 


lent"  the 
:es  of  fur- 
's mother 
self,  while 
nervous, 
ith  them, 
when  he 
k. 

e  fiddlers 
1  line  for 
le  end  of 
nd  ferns, 
len's  an- 
itood  the 
firing  the 
"  was  ra- 
J,  for  not 
1  by  the 
;  to  take 
ith  age. 
stine  to 
g  lady! 

r     She 


"And  who  is  the  handsome  gentleman  writ- 
ing on  her  card  ?  " 

"  He  ees  not  one  gentleman,  my  dear.     He 
ees  ze  proprietor  of  ze  Mint  'Ulep." 

Now,  Mrs.  Wolfstine  marvelled  that  this  man 
should  be  there  dancing  with  the  daughters  of 
the  best  families  in  this  growing  Western  town. 
But  why  should  he  not  be  there?  Every  fire- 
man on  the  division  had  sold  or  tried  to  sell  him 
a  ticket  to  the  annual  ball. 

Society  had  not  yet  become  stratified,  and  this 
wolf  was  still  allowed  to  romp  with  the  lambs. 

After  the  ball,  when  honest  people  were 
asleep,  he  would  go  and  mingle  with  his  own 
kind. 

The  fireman  was  surprised  upon  taking 
Fanny  s  card  to  find  tliat  his  rival  had  already 
written  upon  it.  A  half  hour  later  he  took  the 
card  again  to  select  a  number,  and  found  the 
face  of  it  black  with : 

"Julep." 

"Julep." 

"Julep." 

This  man  had  been  called  by  that  name  so 
much  that  he   had  come  to  answer  to  it  and 

ao 


3o6 


FANNY  AND    THE   FIREMAN 


write  it.     Indeed,  few  people  in  the  place  knew 
that  he  had  another  name. 

It  was  two  hours  after  midnight  when  the 
fireman  opened  the  gate  in  front  of  the  little 
frame  cottage  where  the  girl's  mother  lived. 

"  Well,"  said  the  girl,  putting  the  gate  be- 
tween them,  "  was  the  ball  a  success  ? " 

"  For  some  people  I  think  it  was  a  decided 
success." 

"  And  for  others  ?  " 

"  A  flat  failure." 

'•'  That 's  too  bad,"  said  Fanny,  with  provok- 
ing carelessness. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Where  there  are  so 
many  smooth  runs  and  smooth  runners  there 
must  always  be  a  few  wrecks  and  failures." 

Fanny  yawned  and  ended  it  with  a  forced, 
hall-apologetic  laugh. 

"  Fanny,"  said  the  fireman,  "  I  want  to  ask 
you  one  question  before  I  go,  and  I  would  like 
a  frank  and  honest  answer." 

"Well?" 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  said  that  I  did." 

"  And  you  have  shown  that  you  do  not." 


It  'H 


FANNY  AND    THE  FIREMAN 


307 


"  Then  why  do  you  ask  me  ?  " 

"  For  your  answer.  If  you  can  say  truthfully 
that  you  love  me  now,  fresh  from  the  radiance 
of  that  tinsel  god  Julep,  I  shall  trust  you." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  need  to  trust  me  if  you  don't 
want  to!  I'm  sure  1  never  asked  you  to. 
Good-night !  " 

"  Fanny,"  exclaimed  the  fireman,  stretching 
his  arms  over  the  gate,  "  is  this  the  end  of  my 
dream  ?  " 

The  girl  twisted  the  little  gold  engagement 
ring  from  her  finger  and  thrust  it  across  the 
gate.  Now  the  fireman  wondered  that  he  had 
not  until  now  noticed  the  beautiful  diamond  that 
sparkled  even  in  the  pale  moonlight. 


How  strangely  sad  the  organ  sounded  in  the 
man's  ears  !  He  could  scarcely  remember  when 
he  had  been  inside  of  a  church.  "  It 's  all  rot, 
Fanny,  ole  girl,"  he  had  said,  "  hawkin'  a  dead 
baby  round  a  damp  synagogue  — women  snifflin', 
priest  workin'  the  sprinkler.  'S  'nough  to  give 
a  man  the  jimjams." 


r  I 


308 


FANNY  AND   THE  FIREMAN 


"  Mother  of  God,"  wailed  the  woman,  falling 
upon  her  knees  beside  the  small  white  coffin, 
"  take  my  baby,  my  baby  ! "  And  then  she 
lay  and  sobbed  above  this  mite  of  cold,  cold 
clay. 

The  man  turned  his  bloated,  distorted  face 
from  the  window,  drew  a  silk  handkerchief  from 
his  pocket,  and  flicked  the  dust  from  his  patent- 
leather  boots. 

And  that 's  how  the  Mint  Julep  man  happened 
to  hear  the  organ. 


Ill 

Fanny  had  just  returned  from  the  little  stony 
graveyard  that  had  grown  up  with  the  town. 
The  grass  of  two  summers  had  grown  green 
upon  the  grave  of  her  dead  baby.  Her  hus- 
band, the  Mint  Julep  man,  was  no  more.  His 
light  had  gone  out  in  the  midst  of  delirium,  and 
his  body  had  been  sent  back  East  to  his  people. 

They  had  seen  men  carrying  a  man  on  a 
stretcher  from  the  train  across  the  river  to  the 
hospital. 

"  Engineer  hurt !  "    shouted   a  freckled  boy 


iSmiiir'i' 


FANNY  AND    THE   FIREMAN 


309 


going  past  the  cottage,   proudly  spreading  the 
news. 

"Who  is  it?" 

II  Dunno,"  said  the  boy,  without  slowing  down. 

"  Yes  it 's  him,"  said  Fanny's  mother,  coming 
back  from  one  of  the  neighbors ;  "  caught  un- 
der his  engine -leg  broke  and  badly  scalded." 

Fanny  put  her  chin  in  her  hand,  and  the  tears 
began  to  run  down  her  pale  face.  If  only  she 
could  go  to  him  ;  but  she  had  no  right.  Besides, 
he  might  not  care  to  have  her.  She  had  seen 
him  but  once  since  they  parted  in  the  moon- 
light at  the  gate.  That  was  the  day  her  baby 
was  buried. 

Lifting  her  eyes  from  the  grave  that  was  clos- 
"ig  over  the  white  coffin,  she  had  looked  into 
his  face,  and.  seeing  a  look  of  sympathy  there, 
she  had  almost  thrown  herself  into  his  arms,  so 
utterly  lonely  and  miserable  did  she  feel ;  but  he 
turned  away,  probably  to  hide  his  own  tears. 

It  was  a  week  later  that  the  kind-hearted 
surgeon  consented  to  allow  her  to  visit  the  in- 
jured man. 

He  was  asleep  when  she  entered,  and  she  sat 
down  silently  beside  the  little  iron  bed.     The 


gawlBwtftBJii  ri<UWMH>  ^ 


^ 


310 


FANNY  AND   THE   FIREMAN 


sight  of  his  pale  and  honest  face  so  affected  her 
that  she  took  his  hand  and  held  it  in  hers.  The 
sleeper  stirred  slightly,  and  she  put  down  the 
hand,  but  not  until  she  had  left  two  tears  upon 
it.  When  he  could  collect  his  weak  and  waver- 
ing mind,  the  sick  man  looked  upon  the  pale 
but  still  beautiful  face  of  the  woman  and  whis- 
pered the  one  word,  the  one  name,  that  had  been 
the  sweetest  name  in  the  language  to  him  in  his 
youth.  He  had  taken  her  hands,  and  now  drew 
her  toward  him.     She  turned  her  face  away. 

"  Ah,  Fanny,  don't  you  think  you  could  learn 
to  love  me  again  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  ceased  to  love  you,"  she  said, 
with  her  honest  eyes  upon  his.  '*  It  was  all  a 
mistake,  —  an  awful,  horrid  mistake." 

"  Here,  here !  "  said  the  doctor,  entering. 
"  If  you  're  going  to  cry,  I  '11  send  you  away." 

*'  No,  you  won't,"  said  the  engineer,  smiling, 
and  taking  her  hand  in  his.  "  She 's  going  to 
be  my  nurse." 


THE    END 


t 


BOQKS^    CY    WARM  AN 

•       THE 
WHITE    MAIL 

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OPINIONS    OF    THE    PRESS 

The  Nation. 

Cy  Warman  can  always  impart  a  living  interest  to  a 
story  through  his  close  intimacy  with  locomotives  yard- 
masters,  signals,  switches,  with  all  that  pertains  to  rail - 
n,admg  m  a  word -from  a  managers'  meeting  to  a 
^°f :  .  ^^?  ^^""^^^  enthusiasm  he  feels  for  the  denizens 
of  his  iron  jungle  is  contagious. 

The  Outlook 

Mr.  Cy  Warman,  by  long  personal  experience,  ac- 
quired a  close  and  exact  knowledge  of  the  life  of  rail 
road  men     "The  White  Mail  "  brings  out  realistically 
the  actual  life  of  the  engineer,  the  brakeman,  and  the 
freight  handler. 

The  Congregationalist 

Cy    Warman    writes    excellent    railroad   stories,   of 
course,  and  his  new  one,  "  The  White  Mail,"  is  short 
lively,  and  eminently  readable.  * 

St.   Louis  Globe-Uemocrat 

In  "The  White  Mail,"  Cy  Warman,  in  the  pleasant, 
witty  style  for  which  this  {)oet  of  the  Rockies  has  be- 
come noted,  has  presented  a  tender,  touching  picture 


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Kkview  ok  Reviews 

Nobody  knows  his  frontier  life  better  than  Mr.  War- 
man,  and  his  yarns  of  Indians,  striking  miners,  cow- 
boys, half-breeds,  and  railroad  men,  are  full  of  vivid 
reality.  There  is  plenty  of  romance  and  excitement  in 
this  score  of  stories. 

The  Churchman 

Eighteen  tales  which  certainly  are  excellent  in  their 
kind,  quick,  breezy,  full  of  the  local  color,  yet  with 
delightful  touches  of  universal  humanity. 

Cincinnati  Commercial  Tribune 

They  are  honest  little  chapters  of  life  simply  written, 
an  effective  word  of  slang  stuck  in  here  and  there 
where  it  does  not  seem  at  all  out  of  place  ;  honest, 
open-hearted,  steady-eyed  narratives  all,  with  the  breeze 
of  the  Western  prairies  in  every  line,  as  well  as  the 
brotherhood  of  man,  and  his  triumphs  and  his  failures 
impressing  themselves  upon  ycu  at  every  turn. 


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OPINIONS 

Boston  Transcript 

The  author's  work  is  familiarly  and  pleasantly  known 
to  magazine  readers  for  the  realistic  details  of  VVestern 
rahroad  l.fe,  which  give  them  a  dashing,  vital  movement, 
though  they  are  often  highly  romantic.  The  romantic' 
in  them,  however,  seems  very  human  _  indeed,  there 
18  a  nng  of  true  feeling  in  these  little  tales. 
Brooklyn   Daily  Eagle 

Mr.  Warman's  work  has  about  it  the  merit  of  a 
genuine  realism,  and  it  is  as  full  of  romance  and  adven- 
ture as  the  most  exacting  reader  could  desire.  It  is  a 
volume  oj  sketches  that  is  well  worth  reading,  not  only 
because  they  are  well  written  and  full  of  action,  but  for 
the  pictures  they  give  of  a  life  tiiat  the  world  really 
knows  very  little  about. 

Philadelphia  Press 

The  poet  appears  in  the  descriptive  passages,  and 
there  is  a  melodious  rhythm  to  his  prose  style  that  is 
pleasurable  in  a  high  degree.  Mr.  Warman  has  a 
tield  of  his  own,  and  he  is  master  of  it. 


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TALES  OF  AiN 
ENGINEER 

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OPINIONS    OF    THE    PRESS 

The  Congregationalist 

There  is  true  power  in  Cy  Warman's  "Tales  of  an 
Engineer,"  and  the  reader  yields  willingly  to  the  attrac- 
tion of  its  blended  novelty,  spirit,  and  occasional  pathos. 
It  does  not  lack  humor,  and  every  page  is  worth  reading. 

The  Churchman 

A  new  departuri;  in  literature  should  be  interesting  even 
if  lacking  \r  "^lio  brilliant  ort'-hand  sketchiness  of  these 
pages.  One  steps  into  a  new  life.  There  is  not  a 
dull  page  in  chis  book,  and  much  of  it  is  of  more  than 
ordinary  interest. 

New  Vork  Commercial  Advertiser 

The.  J  is  a  rugged  directness  about  the  description  of 
rushing  runs  on  the  ra'l,  througii  which  one  can  hear 
th'j  thump-thump  of  the  machinery  as  the  engine 
dashes  over  the  rails,  and  which  seems  to  be  illumined 
by  the  glow  of  the  headlights  and  the  colored  signals. 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

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y 


